Often
by icepower55
Summary: "You know, Draco," she says, suddenly, "sometimes we don't get the golden snitch." He furrows his brows, unsure whether she's referring to her own widowhood or his new marriage. "But we get pretty close. And that's good enough, isn't it?" He twirls her around, and nods, throat tight with something soft and heavy all at once.
1. Chapter 1

_For anyone who would like to listen to the songs that I wrote this to:_ _user/1247560918/playlist/3YZwjaPeQaFuHArhaoTbmt_

* * *

 _September, 1996_

"Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger." Dumbledore eyes them, tone jovial. "Pleasure to see you both again."

Malfoy shifts uncomfortably in his chair, tugging at the sleeve of his right arm. In his peripheral vision, he sees Granger shift uneasily as well, her back rigid against the chair as she strives to lean as far away from him as possible.

A scoff rises in his throat, but he extinguishes it before it can come barreling out.

"As you mostly likely both know. You two are our top picks for Head Girl and boy." Dumbledore claps his hands together softly.

"Thank you, Professor. It would be an honor to be chosen." She beams at Dumbledore, and Draco has to fight off the urge to roll his eyes.

He nods respectfully at the old man, but says nothing.

"Well, I know perhaps this seems like an _unusual_ pairing." Dumbledore looks between the two of them, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But we do have a special tradition we are hoping to instate this school year."

Draco furrows his eyebrows, and when he looks over, Hermione seems confused as well.

"Gryffndor and Slytherin," Dumbledore says thoughtfully, his gaze landing somewhere above their heads. "Two great houses."

 _Get on with it, old man._

Dumbledore seems lost in his own thoughts for a moment, and Draco is almost grateful for Granger when she clears her throat, grabbing Dumbledore's attention again.

"Ah, yes." The elderly wizard smiles at them. "My apologies. I do seem to be absent-minded nowadays. That's what a century alive will do to you."

 _We'll both be a century old by the time he finishes._

"We have a special project in mind for you two, something collaborative."

Granger lets out a strange strangled sound, and he smirks.

The headmaster continues, "The professors and I agreed that this would be a good time for some interhouse collaboration. There are dark times ahead indeed. In times like this, unity is paramount."

A vein twitches in Draco's jaw as he stares at Dumbledore who meets his gaze placidly.

Granger speaks first. "Professor, I'm really not sure-"

Dumbledore waves his hand, and Granger's words die in her throat.

"Since you're both gifted at potions, we would like for you two to teach a remedial potions class to the third years. Think of it as a…" the headmaster made a nonchalant flipping gesture with his hand, "a prerequisite for next year."

The bushy-haired witch's mouth is almost hanging completely open. "You want _us_ to teach a class _together_?" Her panic is evident in her wide eyes.

"Precisely, Mrs. Granger." Dumbledore grins at them again.

Draco feels a flicker of panic rising in his chest.

"Headmaster," he begins, searching for the right words, "I don't know if that-"

Dumbledore holds up his palm again, effectively stopping Draco's speech.

The older wizard turns to look at Hermione. "Ms. Granger, you've thought about pursuing a career in teaching after school, have you not?"

She swallows. "Er, yes, professor, but-"

Dumbledore swiftly turns to face him. "And you, Mr. Malfoy, what is it that you would like to do after Hogwarts?"

The mark on his forearm burns, and he itches the fabric above it with his thumb "I don't know."

"Well," the headmaster claps his hands together suddenly, "this is the perfect opportunity for you two to try it out, is it not? Plus, this will give you a chance to get acquainted before you start working together next year." He gives them both a significant look.

And then with a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore dismisses them, both of their protestations dying in their throat as the old man said, "Now, run along now, children. It does no good to dwaddle."

Draco stands up first, his legs rigid as he ascends the stairs out of the headmaster's office, the clicking of Granger's rapid footsteps echoing behind him.

 _October, 1996_

She corners him after Defense Against the Dark Arts. Her brow is furrowed in anger, and her rising voice assaults him in the corridor.

"Malfoy, where have you been?"

He sneers at her, and drawls out lazily "Why, Granger, have you missed me?"

She makes an aggravated sound in the back of her throat, her voice haughty when she says, "Har _dly_ , but our class begins tomorrow, and I wanted to go over lessons plans with you."

He gives her an incredulous look, moving to shove past her, but her foot steps out, blocking his path and he growls.

"I assumed you already had everything settled."

"If you think for _one"_ her voice sharpens impossibly higher, and he winces, "second that I'm going to be doing all of the work for our _joint_ assignment, then you are entirely stupider than I thought you were."

He glares at her, hard, but she doesn't flinch. "Well, _Granger,_ I just assumed that a swotty know-it-all such as yourself would already have lesson plans backlogged from your various hours tutoring Potter and the Weasel."

"Don't call him that," she snaps.

"Sorry, Granger," he smirks at her, "didn't mean to insult your girlfriend."

She shoves a notebook into his chest, and he stumbles back a step, scowling at her as he flips through the pages.

"This is our lesson plan. Memorize it and _don't_ be late tomorrow." She sends him one last withering glare and stalks off, her angry footfalls causing two second years to leap out of her way.

 _November, 1996_

"Now _Amortentia_ ," she enunciates the syllables, and Draco rolls his eyes, "is a powerful potion with a distinct mother of pearl sheen that will cause its user to fall into a dangerous obsession with the potion brewer." Two brunette third year girls in the front row titter, and then blush a deep red when Draco makes eye contact with them. He smirks as they start giggling.

Hermione sniffs, shooting him a glare. "It does _not_ , however, manufacture true love." Her tone softens slightly."That cannot be created. It's a natural phenomenon." Draco scoffs, aggravated by her show of sentimentality, and she shoots him another baleful look.

"The potion smells distinctly of whatever the brewer is most attracted to, even if it is something the witch or wizard isn't aware of." She clears her throat. "It's said to mimic the heart's true desire in that regard."

A group of Slytherin boys scoff in the corner, and this time Hermione's glare is directed their way.

She moves to the steaming cauldron set behind them, leaning over the edge of it and sniffing delicately. "For example, I-"

Draco cuts her off, "Granger here probably smells chocolate frogs, the stench of poverty, and body odor." She scowls at him, clearly catching his reference to Weasley, and he smirks in return, lifting his eyebrow.

"Actually," she says, tone sharp, "I smell," she leans in, eyes closed and breathing deeply. She opens her eyes and he spies a flicker of panic in her gaze, before she stutters out, "I—well, it doesn't matter exactly what I smell. It's different for each person."

She turns away from him, facing the class again, her back unnaturally rigid, and her fingers clenched by her side. "So, class, partner up and we'll-"

Her voice becomes muffled under the sound of the students shifting around, and he stares at her questioningly.

 _December, 1996_

They're sitting across from each other in the library, the scratching of the quills against parchment the only sound as they both grade exams.

"These children are idiots," he mutters under his breath, as he draws ex over ex on the paper.

She shoots him a look. "They're learning."

"They're fumbling," he retorts back

Granger sniffs and turns back to her stack, picking up another scroll.

He feels her eyes on him, and looks up, making an aggravated sound. Taking advantage of his diverted attention, she reaches out and snatches the scroll away from her, scanning her eyes over the page.

"Malfoy," she says, squinting at his comments, "you've marked every single one of these wrong."

"So glad you can read, Granger."

She glares at him, stabbing her finger at question 14 on the page. _List the ingredients for Felix Felicis_ "He got all of the ingredients right," she says, staring at him.

He crosses his arm and sniffs haughtily. "I didn't like his penmanship." He leans back in his chair and adds, "It's atrocious, honestly, as bad as yours."

She stares at him. He waits for admonishment, but then something seems to crack in her face, and her mouth peels open in a wide, ridiculous smile and she's laughing.

He stares at her, confused. Madam Pince glares at them from her desk, but Hermione laughs harder at the older woman's angry stare.

"Have you gone mad, Granger? What's wrong with you?" He leans forward, squinting as he examines her. Her tawny hair is down today, and the curls are framing her face, creating a soft halo that diffuses the sunlight coming in through the window behind her. Her nose is wrinkled, her teeth white and even, the top row biting down on her bottom lip as she attempts to compose herself.

"Absolutely mad," he mutters under his breath, but then he catches her gaze again, and she stutters out another giggle, her face turning pink with exertion as she tried to contain the laugh coming out of her in spurts, and he felt something strange and light bubble up inside of him too.

 _January, 1997_

 _"Fuck,"_ he roars, slamming his hand down on the side of the cabinet. His other hand is clenched tightly on his wand, and he kicks the side of the rickety wood as he exhales harshly.

He had tried repairing charm after repairing charm, but nothing stuck, and the cabinet was still as broken as it had been before he had been tasked with fixing it. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the smooth wood and breathing in, attempting to slow his breathing.

He hears a noise suddenly, and his gaze shoots up, landing on her. She lets out a squeak of surprise, and he stalks towards her, footsteps angry. She backs up into a wall, and he's towering over her, gaze hard and angry.

"What _the fuck_ are you doing in here?"

Something close to fear flashes in her eyes, but then she's straightening up and crossing her arms under his vicious look. "I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy."

He slams a hand down besides her, trapping her in and snarls out, "How did you get in here?"

She sniffs, her gaze unwavering, but he looks down to see that her fingers are trembling against her skirt. He's close enough to smell her—a mix of sandalwood and citrus that he accidentally inhales with his harsh breathing.

"I followed you here." She lifts her chin up, her gaze defiant. "You've been avoiding me."

"The whole world doesn't revolve around you, Granger." He narrows his eyes, his tone hard, as he unconsciously bridges the small distance between them.

"I know that," she snaps, "but you—" she looks down, struggling to find the words, "you haven't come to our class—And you haven't helped out with grading either!" Her tone turns indignant at the end, and if he wasn't so furious he might have laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

"I've been _busy_ ," he bites out.

She looks around him, her gaze landing on the vanishing cabinet. He tries to angle his body so that she loses sight of it, but it's too late. "That's a vanishing cabinet, isn't it?" Her tone is softer when she asks him.

He says nothing, jaw tense as he stares at the space below her ear. His arm is still trapping her in.

"You're helping Voldemort, aren't you? You're going to fix it so that…so that death eaters can come into Hogwarts?" Her inflection makes it a question, but the finality with what she says it shows him that she already knows the answer.

His head snaps up at the mention of the Dark Lord and he gives her a hard look. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't say his name? You're doing his bidding now and you can't even say his name out loud?"

"Drop it," he says sharply, dangerously.

"I will not—"

" _DROP_ it!" He shouts, shooting his other arm out on the other side of her, keeping her effectively locked in the space.

Her eyes glance down, staring at his right forearm where the sleeve is pushed up, his dark mark angry and red from his scratching. She reaches out to touch it, and he drops his arm immediately, stepping back from her jerkily.

"When did you take the mark?" She asks, quietly. Her gaze is unreadable.

He snorts but doesn't answer her, and she steps closer, encroaching further onto his personal space.

"When did you take it?" She repeats, her tone sterner.

"None of your bloody business," he growls out.

"You stupid, stupid boy," she says lowly, muttering to herself as she shakes her head from side to side, eyes never leaving the dark ink. He glares at the curls skating across her face due to her rapid head movement.

He bristles, "The _fuck_ do you know, Granger?"

"Why did you do it?" She's staring at him intensely, and suddenly all he wants to do is leave. He spins around quickly, ready to leave this room and this girl, when she launches herself at him and grabs his arm.

He tries to shake her off. "Let me go," he says, voice dangerously low.

When she doesn't release him, attempting to tug him back instead, he roars out, "LET ME GO."

He spins around, glaring at her, and she's glaring right back at him, chest heaving with her angry breaths. He backs her into the wall again, his fingers digging into her hip as he pushes her against the hard stone. His voice comes out shaky when he says, quietly and viciously, " _leave it alone."_

She stares up at him, eyes narrowed and her cheeks pink. "No," she says, slowly, enunciating the two syllables like he's a child, an idiot.

His fingers tighten even more on her hip, and he sees her wince in the low lighting. He stares at her, the amber flecks in her eyes flashing in the low light, calling to him. They're both breathing harshly, and he digs his fingers into her hip harder, eliciting a soft moan of pain, which makes him close his eyes tightly, the pounding in his head hard and furious. He breathes in deeply, a thousand images flashing past his mind:

 _their grading sessions the library, her taut posture lecturing in the front of a classroom, her hair, her laughter, the dark lord's sneer, his broken father, his breaking mother, the softness of her skin when she accidentally brushed against his hand, the twinkle in her eye when she felt like she had a particularly good retort._

And filled with anger, frustration, and fear, he does the only thing he can think of- he kisses her.

She lets out an _oomph_ of surprise, her fingers briefly pushing him away, before she suddenly grows pliant, opening her mouth in a sigh as her fingers push into his hair, grasping roughly at the strands.

He runs his hand up her neck, holding her roughly underneath her jaw, as his other hands pulls her hips into him, grinding himself into her stomach. She lets out a breathy moan at the contact, and he bites down on her lip, eliciting another breathless sound from her. Her arms wind around his neck, and she steps on his shoes as she tries to get closer to him.

"Sorry," she breathes out, and the word is like a bucket of cold water. He steps away from her abruptly. Her eyes are glazed and wide, her mouth swollen and shining. She raises one hand up, swiping her index finger against her lips, and he stumbles back, horrified.

He stares at her, panic clouding his vision, and then turns to leave.

"Malfoy," she calls out, and against his better judgment, he pauses, his body tense. "Just—just come back to the library," she finally says, her voice soft.

He stares there for a minute, breathing in deeply, her taste still on his tongue. Then he walks away, not looking back.

 _February, 1997_

He comes back to the library a month after what he's come to call _the incident._ He spends the first two weeks after constantly looking over his shoulder, suspicious at every turn that Potter's gangly frame would grab him and drag him down to Dumbledore's office, hexing him until he admits what is happening right under their noses.

He is surprised, and suspicious, when nothing happens. Weasley and Potter still glare at him in their lessons, but Hermione's gaze is more inquisitive, more searching, and he takes great care not to meet her look straight on, avoiding any places where she might be. At their weekly lessons, he stands at the back of the class, directly across from her, a sea of students between them so that he can avoid being near her. He adds little to the discussions, but glares at any student that doesn't listen to her lectures.

He can't get her scent, the feel of her hair, the smoothness of her lips, out of his mind, and at night when he can't sleep, haunted by his senses, he thinks he might be going mad.

He finally stalks into the library late on a Friday and finds her at their table near the far right corner. She looks up when he roughly sits down in the chair and hisses, "What did you tell Potter?"

She looks at him, her mouth set in a thin line, and sets down her quill. "I didn't tell him anything."

He gives her a disbelieving look, and she stares back, raising one eyebrow.

"Don't lie to me, Granger."

"I'm not," she says, hotly.

They stare at each other, neither breaking eye contact.

Finally, he says, "Why haven't you said anything?" His tone is harsh and cold, but there is a vein of curiosity that is threaded within the letters.

"Because," she says simply, "I'm going to change your mind."

He scoffs and glares at her, making to get up, and she tosses a pile of parchments at him.

"Since you're already here, you might as well grade these with me." He scowls at her, but sits down again anyways.

Halfway through the pile, they're bickering loudly, and then she drags him over to the potions section, intent on proving him wrong.

"Mundugwarts are _not_ endemic to South America," she says, huffing.

"Granger, I've been to South America, I'm telling you right now they most certainly are."

She makes some aggravating noise, and scans the books in front of her, reaching for a thick hardcover textbook right as he does. Their fingers collide, and he looks at her, suddenly noticing how close she is. His eyes drift down, settling on her gently curved cupid's bow. Her breathing quickens, her neck tensing with the rapid movements, and he watches a slight flush swim across her chest.

Quickly, he bends down and kisses her, his touch rough. She responds just as fast, hands fisting into his robes as he backs her up against the bookshelf. All he can think is _mistakemistakemistakemistake_ but he kisses her hard, one hand digging into her hip as the other squeezes her breast She inhales sharply, startled, and his fingers loosen, rubbing circles against the hard points of her nipples instead. Her sigh drifts off into a moan, and he groans against her shoulder _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

 _This is the last time_ he thinks, biting down gently into the soft column of her neck before he begins sucking at the skin there. The thought sends a frisson of panic inside of him, and he pushes against her, trying to get impossibly closer. He reaches for her knee, pinning it up against the bookshelf so that he can rub himself against her heat, and she throws back her neck, eyes closed as she lets out a loud moan. He clamps one hand against her mouth, the other casting a quick _muffliato_ as he thrusts against her again, his own growl low and deep inside his chest.

 _OnelasttimeOnelasttimeOnelasttime._

* * *

 _Authors Note: Hi guys! This is my first story, and I'm so excited to share it with you. Please leave a review! Not only does it make me edit faster (this is currently un-betaed so all mistakes are my own) but I'd also just love to get to know you guys!_


	2. Chapter 2

_March, 1997_

"Malfoy, Malfoy-mmhmm-"she says against his mouth, breathlessly. His fingers are sliding up her legs, tracing the edge of her knickers, and he's so hard against his trousers he worries that he's going to pop like a bloody fourth year or something.

He kisses her neck, sucking on the soft skin underneath her ear, and she lets out a soft moan. He traces up the center of her damp knickers, feeling the outline of her folds against his fingers and she rubs herself against him. He smirks against her cheek. "Eager, aren't we?"

She glares at him, but the scornful effect is ruined by her flushed cheeks and glazed over eyes.

He chuckles and leans down again, kissing her deeply. She pushes weakly against his shoulders, "Malfoy—I have to tell you something," she pants out.

"So tell me," he nips her neck, tracing his tongue along a vein under her warm skin.

"I want you to reconsider," she rushes out, and he can tell by the hitch in her voice that she's nervous. He's still leaning over her, and her fingers are wrapped around his neck, tracing soft patterns there.

He looks at her, confused, and she continues, "I want you to reconsider his orders."

He tenses and sits up, immediately feeling the loss of her body heat.

"How many times—" he growls out, dragging a hand down his face. She sits up as well, and faces him. "We could help you. You and your family. The order could keep them safe—"

He snorts, and reaches past her for his Oxford. She puts her arm on his shoulder, and he pushes her off.

"Just leave it, Granger. I told you—"

"—but you haven't even considered—"

"—and what do you think they're going to do to my father? My mother?—"

"—safe houses and wards—"

"—just STOP!" She cuts off, and he inhales deeply, eyes closed. A dull throbbing is pounding away at the back of his head, and his chest feels tight, his legs tense with the need to get away.

"Fuck, this was a mistake." He buttons up his shirts and pushes off of the bed.

She looks wounded for a moment before her mouth tilts up in what must be the closest thing to a sneer she can manage. "You say that every time."

"Doesn't make it less true," he mutters, heading towards the door. They've been meeting in the Room of Requirement, ostensibly to grade papers and go over lessons plans, but each time they end up here, very little grading gets done.

"You're a coward, Draco Malfoy." He turns sharply, a dozen retorts balanced on his tongue, but she continues before he can get a word in.

"You don't even believe in the cause anymore." He whips around to face her, jaw clenched.

"How would you know that?" He says slowly, eyeing her.

She stiffens, a flash of uncertainty in her eyes, but then she continues, voice even, "Because if you did you wouldn't be here, you wouldn't touch me," her voice dips with significance, "the way you have been."

He stares at her, so hard his eyes burn, and then he snarls out, "You don't know anything, Granger" and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

 _May, 1997_

He takes her virginity on a bright summer afternoon at the end of May, a week before classes are about to end. It's a Hogsmeade weekend that day, and she's wearing a deep blue skirt and a white tank top with thick straps.

He spies her across the aisle of Honeydukes, laughing with Potter and Weasley. He stands there in the aisle, staring intensely at her, eyes lingering on the exposed skin of her leg, until she looks up and meet his gaze, the surprise evident in her eyes.

He gives her a significant look, and Weasley glares at him, putting a protective arm around her before he ushers her away.

Back at Hogwarts, he comes to their room and finds her already inside, waiting for him.

Her kisses match his, frantic and needy as they tear at each other's clothes. They've been sneaking around for four months now. He has gotten to know her body so intimately he feels he could identify her in a room full of strangers just from touch alone.

He knows how she trembles right before she breaks apart, pressing against his hand as she stifles a moan against his shoulder. He's seen the way her eyes flash with hunger when he unbuttons his shirt, the way her breath catches in her throat when she reaches down and squeezes him gently, his breath hot against her cheek. He's known her in every way but one, but it feels too presumptuous, too significant to ask her of that, even though he aches with the need to be inside her. Alone, at night, he tugs at himself, desperate to feel her heat around him.

He's come so close already. His finger fully inside her knickers, rubbing against the small nub that makes her breath erratically, panting into her palm as his other hand tugs the fabric off her completely. Or his tongue there, swiping against her intimately, her taste hot and _wet_ against his mouth as he sucks and licks and laves He's seen her completely bare, known the intimate weight of her breasts in his palm, in his mouth, against his face. The sounds of pleasure she makes when he gets it just right, how she tightens around his two fingers. Still, he's never been inside her, only rubbed himself against her, so hard with need he feels he'll burst at how hot she is against his length.

And he knows that if he did position himself there-if he did push in, one hand tight against her hip while the other dug into the comforter, desperate not to lose control- she would let him. He's seen the trust in her eyes during moments of intimacy between them, and it makes his chest hurt with the implications. But he won't do it; he won't enter until she's completely sure, until she asks him. He wants her to ask him.

"Please, _please,"_ she's pants, and he feels her tighten around his fingers, hips grinding down frantically against him.

"Please what, Granger?" His index finger is rubbing against her lazily, and her hips pick up speed, desperate to get him to go faster.

"Dra _co,_ please," her voice hitches at the end into a whine, and he smirks.

"You'll have to be a little more specific, Princess," he drawls out, eyeing her hungrily.

She glares at him, but reaches for his belt buckle. He helps her get his trousers off, and then inhales sharply when she pulls him forward, positioning him at her entrance.

She wraps her legs around him and tugs, trying to move him closers, and he stares at her, searching her eyes.

"Granger," he whispers raggedly, his heartbeat quickening

She takes his hesitation for something else and rolls her eyes, a charming little smirk tilting her lips up, and says, " I want you inside me, Draco Malfoy." Her voice is husky, but it wavers a little on towards the end, like she's not used to being so brazen. Then she smiles at him softly, and says, quietly, "I want it to be you, because, I—well, I _believe_ in you-"

He leans down and kisses her, cutting off the rest of the sentence. His body almost awkward, heavy and filled with longing, his flesh hypersensitive with what feels like tiny pulses of electricity under the surface. With one hand he guides himself into her as the other drags against her cheek. Her mouth opens for him, her tongue flicking lightly against the tip of his as he groans into her mouth, his thighs trembling with the effort to go slowly, softly.

He inches in, and she hisses in pain, her fingers tightening against his biceps. He stops, kissing her deeper, nipping on her lower lip, and running his tongue against the inside seam of her mouth. He waits until she relaxes a little, and then inches in further and further, the heat and the tightness around him almost unbearable as her nails dig into him and a pained whine makes its way through her throat.

"I've got you," he whispers against her mouth. "Almost there." He holds his breath, his abdomen tense as he thrusts in, feeling something break and then her shout of pain. He kisses her cheeks, lips ghosting over every inch of her face.

"Shh," he says softly, fingers gliding down her cheek. "Relax, Granger. Don't tense up. It'll only hurt more."

She whimpers, but stills, her chest moving up and down underneath him. Soon her breathing evens out, and he gives an experimental thrust against her, smiling when her thighs clamp down around him tightly and she lets out a little, ragged moan.

"Oh, do that again." She demands, hips already pitching up.

"Bossy," he murmurs into her hair, hips picking up speed, against hers.

"Pra—"she says, but then he snakes a finger between them, rubbing lightly on her clit, and she breaks off into a loud moan.

She tenses around him and he curses viciously, a shockwave of pleasure rippling out around him. He groans deep in his throat, quickening his thrusts even further, so close. A ragged groan escapes his throat, and he feels her lips quirk up against his jaw.

He breaks apart with a shout, and she rakes her nails down his back, no doubt leaving red a line of red welts as she circles her hips underneath him. For a minute, he just lays on top of her, sweaty and panting into her mess of frizzy curls. Then he rolls over next to her, and swallows hard, embarrassed over how fast he came, and how she didn't.

It's quiet for a few minutes. Draco looks up at the ceiling, staring at the different stones there. If she leaves right now, if she says something cruel or brings up the Order or Potter, his chest will cave in and he'll crack apart into a million pieces, spreading throughout this room like ashes.

But then she puts her small hand against his chest. He looks down at the fingers splayed underneath his collarbones, and then up at her warm face, a secret smiling spread across her delicate features, and something swells in his heart and he thinks maybe everything will be okay.

She leans over and kisses him. "That was wonderful," she says, her eyes bright and shining before she pillows her head against his chest.

He wraps an arm around her waist tightly, possessively, and breathes her in; wanting to memorize her scent, keep this moment within him before they have to leave for the summer. He stares at a mole on the side of her right hip, his finger tracing the little dot, and she pulls away slightly. "That tickles," she murmurs sleepily against him.

"Sleep, Granger," he says, running a hand against her back. "Go to sleep." Her eyes drift close, and he watches her for a minute before he closes his eyes two, both of their chests moving in even breaths.

 _August, 1997_

He thinks of her all summer. She's so deep within his skin that he worries the Dark Lord can sense the yearning he has for her, and for one's he's grateful his aunt spent so long teaching him Occulemency.

He wonders what she's doing, and feels irrational pricks of jealous along his skin when he thinks about her owling Potter and Weasley, or going on dates with some muggle boys at home.

The manor feels inexplicably cold this summer, even as temperatures reach a record high. The Dark Lord shows up randomly throughout the summer. Some days he walks into the manor to find him sitting there in the dining room, a dozen black robes surrounding him.

"Draco," he hisses, beckoning him forward, "how has the task been going?"

And he lies each time, blacking out his mind so that the Dark Lord can't see his failure, the pervasive sense of fear and regret that clouds his chest and makes it hard to breathe.

But he senses the anger thrumming beneath his red eyes every time he has no new news to report, and he knows he is running out of time.

His father stares at him, eyes wide and tracking his movements across the manor. There is a dead, glazed over look that permanently haunts Lucius' features. His once immaculately placed hair is strewn in oily tendrils across his back, and his lips are permanently stretched into a pained grimace, off-set by the watery, vacant look in his grey eyes. His mother stares too, but her eyes are always full of fear, and on more than one occasion he has caught a faint sheen of what he suspects to be tears on the edge of her lashes.

He doesn't know what to do. He's panicky all summer, avoiding all his friends until Pansy sends him a howler, but even that can't convince him to rejoin the world. He locks himself away in his bedroom, sinking into his emerald green duvet and staring up unblinkingly at the ceiling, his palm running rubbing circles against the mangled skin on his left forearm. The mark is dark red and ugly, patches of skin raised where he's scratched so hard he bled. He wears long sleeves most days, even when it's sweltering outside, to keep the contorted flesh away from anyone's eyes. He knows it wouldn't be good if the Dark Lord saw how failure was even imprinted onto his skin.

 _September, 1997_

She looks older when he sees her next. Her hair is shorter-better tamed, really-though he suspects with a little heat and humidity the glossy curls she has around her shoulder will erupt into that volcano of frizz from before.

He feels breathless when he steps into the room, and she's already there, sitting in a green armchair by the fire. He comes up behind her, fingers outstretched to frighten her, or maybe kiss her breathless, when she turns suddenly and finds him there, arm extended.

She gives him a bemused look, her amber eyes incandescent from the flames, and he can't help the smile that begins to slide across his face. Then her brow furrows, and her eyes dim, and when she gestures for him to sit down across from her, he keeps his feet planted steadily against the carpet because he knows she's about to unleash an earthquake under him.

"Draco, hi," she says, softly. He counts the motion of her eyelashes to keep himself grounded.

He grunts in acknowledgement, and she chews on her lip, her pretty, pink mouth opening once, and then closing before opening again.

He makes a noise of impatience, and she looks at him sharply, but then her gaze softens, perhaps noticing the tenseness of his body.

"Harry and Ron are suspicious," she says. She takes a deep breath, and then rushes out, "and we're also working together as Head Girl and Head Boy this year and I don't think we should do this —" At _this_ her hand makes some spastic movement in the air between them," anymore."

He says nothing, choosing instead to stare at the Head Girl badge on her robe. His fingers reach up to trace the outline of his matching badge, and he swallows hard.

"I just—Draco, I really thought that _maybe,"_ she closes her eyes, anguished, and something sharps carves into his trachea, "I could change your mind, but," she finishes, softer, slower, "I don't know if I believe that anymore."

The words swim between them, he feels something horrible twisting inside him. It feels like panic, like the Dark Lord's gaze on him, like his mark burning away his flesh, and he nods, once, stiffly.

"Things are getting more dangerous. There's been more attacks, and I—Draco, _please—"_ she rises, coming to stand a few feet away from him. She's so close he can count the new smattering of freckles across her nose, but she feels millions and millions of miles away.

Suddenly, he's reminded of the snitch he caught in fourth year. It was the final game of the season, and it was raining hard. He had barely been able to see, but he was determined to catch that elusive snitch, his fingers reaching out blindly every time he heard a slight _zooming_ sound. He must have looked like a madman up there, streaking across the sky every which way, but he had wanted it so _badly._ And then, by some miracle, nose to nose with Potter, he had surged forward with one last, desperate breath, and caught it, the snitch safe and secure in his gloves.

In that brief moment of weightlessness, the roaring of his house and teammates behind him, he had felt invincible, like anything was possible. Then, in one swift motion, he had fallen, his hand reaching out to grab his broom only to slide off, his feet flailing as he feel all the way back to earth, the wind thrown out of him as his lungs were thrust back so far that he thought they might burst out of chest. His head rebounded painfully on the muddy grass with a _crack_ that rang in his ears long after he was taken to the infirmary. But, lying there in that moment, convinced that all the bones in his body had shattered from the collision, he had moved his palm slightly, knowing that if only that small, golden ball were still there he would be _fine;_ all he had felt was air.

She looks aggrieved, her eyes glossy and her voice thick with _something. "_ —I want to help you. Let us-let _me_ -help you."

He stays mute, his heart thudding loud and clear in his chest.

"If you still want to help _him_ I—" she sniffs, turning away from him slightly, "I accept your decision, but I—I can't do this anymore." Her voice breaks slightly towards the end, and he flinches.

She stares at him expectantly, and he finally asks, voice low, "What would happen if I accepted?"

For one brief, dizzying moment she stares at him open-mouthed, the confusion evident on her face. His skin pricks under her gaze, wishing he could take back the question already.

Her look is so _open,_ so trusting, that he wants to run, but then she comes closer and puts her hand on him, her small fingers wrapping halfway across his forearm, and he's frozen.

"We could hide you—the Order, I mean. Or," she pauses, considering her next words, "if you want, you could help us?" He knows she means for it to be a statement, but the words pitch up at the end anyways, turning it into a question, and he wonders if she feels it's too much to ask of him, or if she doesn't think he would say yes.

It is too much to ask. It is him sacrificing everything, giving it all up—his father, his _mother._ All for a girl, for a cause that maybe he could adopt, but probably not. He'll never be brave like her or Potter, rushing out to fight the good fight. He'll never be righteous in the ways she is, willing to sacrifice it all for something half-formed. He's a Malfoy; he was born with arrogance and pride in his bones, and he's been taught since he was barely there what it means to be one. His whole life, he's been taught to hate, to judge and condemn. Is that something he could unlearn? Something he could shed, shed the same way he feels his heart unpeels itself layer by layer whenever she's around? How could he give it all up? How could he do it?

How could he not?

"And what would happen to my mother and my father?"

A dark cloud passes across her face, and from the cautious movements of his mouth, he knows she is choosing her words very carefully.

"If they were willing to help us—or, if they were willing to defect, we could hide them as well."

He stares at her, and her gaze is unwavering, but he knows she's thinking the same thing. His mother, maybe, would come, but his father? His father would die, will die, for the cause.

He gives her a significant look, and he hopes that she understand what she's asking of him, now. To give up the man who has raised him, who has loved him his whole life. When he was little, his father was his role model, his hero. As a little boy, all he had wanted was to grow up to be just like Lucius Malfoy. To have that same poise, the same grace and power that thrummed underneath an impeccable appearance.

And then she's moving forward and wrapping her arms around him, her hair underneath his nose, the scent of her overwhelming him. Her lips are somewhere near his ear, feather light against his cheek, and he can feel the movements of her mouth when she whispers, "I mean what I said, Draco." Her arms tighten slightly across his back, "I _do. I believe in you."_

And he closes his eyes, because everything is changing. Everything's about to fall apart, to burst into flames, so high and so bright he'll never be able to extinguish them. An earthquake is opening beneath their feet, the cracks inches away from their shoes. A tsunami is on its way, the waves dangerously close to crashing against their shelter. A tornado will sweep them away any second now, tearing them for limb to limb.

But he has a girl, a brave, stubborn, self-righteous girl in his arms. His lungs are burning, his head is pounding, but his heart feels clear and light, and he's frightened, _terrified,_ but the only thing he can say in that moment is, "Okay."

 _October, 1997_

He's seated at a long, wooden table, members of the order flanking him from every side. All he can feel is the heat of their glazes, the scent of their distrust permeating the air, and he levels his own scowl around the table, but he knows it will have no effect here.

To his left is a row of shocking red-hair and freckles. Weasley's sneer is particularly vicious in the yellow lighting of the kitchen, and Potter sits across from him, a stoic, unreadable expression on his face. Draco can't see his eyes clearly due to the glare from his glasses, but he imagines that they are as filled with hate as everyone else's gaze here. Everyone except for her, that is. She's sitting a few seats down from him, her brows furrowed and her teeth biting down on her lower lip, staring at him with worry etched into her features. He wants to reach over and hold her hand, but he's frozen in place, being examined by everyone.

The werewolf is staring at him expectantly, speaking slowly and clearly, like he's a child, or an idiot. He feels a fission of anger and resentment blast through his chest, but he holds his tongue, biting down on his molars to keep from saying something he will regret.

"Draco, do you pledge your allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Do I get a prize if I do?" He sneers out, before he can help himself.

Remus makes an annoyed sound, and he catches a flash of her disappointment in the corner of his eye.

A chair scrapes back viciously, and then Weasley is standing up, finger raised in what he must think is a threatening gesture. " _Fuck_ this. We should just throw the bloody git out. Feed him to Voldemort himself."

" _Ronald_ Weasley," her voice is sharp and stern, and it almost makes him smile, "sit back down and stop causing a scene."

The orange git gapes at her for a moment, but then sits down reluctantly, shooting Potter a significant look that he doesn't return.

Remus tries again. "Draco, why are you here today?"

He snorts. "Why the fuck do you think I'm here?"

"Draco," she hisses, and he closes his eyes.

Remus waits till his eyes open to ask, "Do you want to help the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Help is a strong word. "

"Do you want our protection then?"

Draco makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. "I'm not your fucking charity case. "

Weasley looks like he's about to say something, but Hermione glares at him so hard that he closes his mouth before any sound comes out.

"Malfoy," Remus sighs, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, "do you _want_ to help the Order of the Phoenix?"

He has a scathing retort bubbling on the back of his tongue, but then he sees her eyes,

wide and bright, staring at him over Remus' shoulder and her words echo through his head _I believe in you,_ and it makes him swallows and nod, voice dry when he says, "Yes, I do." He holds her gaze, "I want to help."

Someone places a small vial of clear liquid in front of him, Veritaserum no doubt. He feels those same feelings of anger and resentment unfurl inside of him, but then he thinks of her eyes again, her secret smile, and he reaches over and uncaps the vial.


	3. Chapter 3

_This part veers off-canon, so apologies to anyone who was hoping for this to retain cannonical accuracy. I tried to work in what I could, but switched some things around to help with the plot. Moreover, the timeline is probably off too, despite my best efforts. Thank you, in advance, for reading._

* * *

 _February, 1997_

She's lying on his chest, and his arm is slung across her waist in a gesture of intimacy that he isn't used to. Her abominable hair is tickling his nose, and sometimes he has to breathe in deeply just to make sure he's getting enough oxygen through that obstruction of curls. Last night he woke up in the middle of the night to the most irritating tickling under his nostril, and his jaw was already tight with tension, ready to untangle her from him or wake her up and demand that she do _something_ about the bird's nest on her head. But he took one look at her face, soft and tender in repose, with her pretty, pink lips parted slightly and her long, pale neck calling to him like a siren, and all he could do was tighten his arm around her abdomen and close his eyes, resigning himself to suffocation.

When she wakes in the morning, she drags her toes up and down his calf maddeningly slow and he pretends to be asleep longer just so he can hear her huff of indignation when her ministrations fail to wake him up. As soon as she stops, he opens his eyes and twists, trapping her squirming body under his, her surprised yelp sending a flash of hot air against his cheek as he grins into her shoulder. She struggles very briefly, her slim fingers pushing into his forearms, but then he leans down and kisses her deeply, sucking down on her bottom lip gently, and she lets out a contented sigh, opening her mouth so the tip of his tongue can trace a lazy circle around hers.

Now they are lying here, and he can tell from her fidgeting that she wants to say something, probably something serious. But the pale, blue dawn is just drifting in through the windows and the moment is so tender that he hopes she doesn't break it by reminding them of what is waiting outside the door.

She trails a finger down his left arm, the arm without the Dark mark, and she asks, finally, "How come you never call me Hermione?" He wants to laugh with relief, his anxiety over her questioning dissipating as she turns her head to look at him, forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

He kisses her shoulder and says, "Well, what kind of name is _Hermione_ , anyways?" He drags out the syllables of her name, mimicking the way she does sometimes when someone pronounces it wrong _Her-My-Oh-Knee._

She sputters indignantly against him, "Oh, like you're one to talk, _Dray-co."_

He glares at her, and she glares right back, though his arm doesn't leave her waist. "It's a constellation," he sniffs, "a family name." Then he smirks at her, his right eyebrow rising as his fingers trail down her right side. "If you think about it, _Hermione._ It's like I'm written in the stars."

She gives him an incredulous look, breathing out a laugh into his shoulder. "Prat."

He pinches her side lightly and she yelps, so he kisses her to get her to shut up.

 _March, 1997_

He's not made for war the way Potter, Weasley, and her are. He's not brave like them, stupidly courageous with their own power and righteousness, ready to rush out into the thicket of things with only a half-formed plan in their mind.

He's never been like that, he'll never _be_ like that, but he goes with them each time. Over the weeks, he hones his reflex to crack back at the slightest sound, pushes his body to extremes when he sprints so hard he fears the cartilage in his legs will turn to dust, and learns to keep one eye always on his teammates, his friends-maybe.

He always keeps an eye trained for any stray curses, tongue poised to cast at anything that looks threatening. The first time she had almost been hit, he had pulled her back so abruptly that she had fallen against him, with his fist clenched around the torn lilac of her t-shirt. He had dragged them past the anti-apparation wards and apparated them out right then, dealt with the wrath of her pounding fists and shaking form as she screamed at him, told him he had no right, that she was going back _right this second_ even as he held her wand behind his back.

He didn't know how to tell her that it took hours for his heart to stop beating erratically after, the memory of almost losing her imprinted in his body, coursing through his blood every time he saw a flash of her hair, felt a whisper of her breath. Sometimes he thought he could smell fear now. He didn't know how to tell her that even though he wouldn't ever pull the same stunt again, he still always angles his body near hers when they're out, still practices his wand movements when she's not looking, drawing out the syllables of disarming charms until his mouth forms them in his sleep.

He's a skilled wizard. He knows just as many spells as she does, is faster than Potter when sprinting, and is better at everything than Weasel is, but still, he doesn't settle into war the way they do—doesn't nurse it deep in his body the way she does.

Her body becomes curved from the strain of battles, her fingers knotted from the tension she holds her wand with. She becomes jumpy, skittish—violent in sleep and anxious in wakefulness. He often thinks that all he wants to do is take her away with him; hide out in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, a kingdom by the sea, where no one can find them and no one can bother them. But he knows that she'd sooner die-she might die-than abandon her friends. He knows that he'll never be able to keep her safe the way he wants to. Hermione Granger could be trained for war, but she couldn't ever be trained for surrender.

He leans to kill dispassionately. Even with the Mark on his arm, it had been agonizing the first time he uttered the curse—the syllables burned onto his tongue. He doesn't use it often, but when he does, he learns to float above himself, watch the blond man below him hurtle the green light forward with a detached sort of curiosity.

He learns to never look in her eyes when she has to cast hers.

 _May, 1997_

She won't let him come with her this time. It's the final horcrux, and she says that she needs to do this with Harry and Ron, that it felt right this way, the trio.

He pretends not to be hurt by reacting in anger instead. Sulking and avoiding her, sleeping on the couch instead of next to her, even as he stays awake all night, a deep and foreboding fear inside of him—what if this begins the countdown to the end?

He's staring at the blue dawn breaking over the horizon when he hears the soft padding of her footsteps nearby. He closes his eyes and evens his breath, unsure of whether she is stopping by the kitchen or by him. And then he smells her even before he hears her small inhale, the soft pads of her fingers brushing across his fringe, then his eyes, lingering for longer on his lips.

"I know you're awake," she says in hushed amusement.

He opens his eyes and glowers at her. "Can't a man get some peace in this fucking house?"

She leans over. "Move over," she says, and climbs into the too small space next to him before he can protest.

He makes a grunting noise, like she's crushing him with her weight and she glares at him, turning her back to him. He's still for a moment, watching her skin light with the pale glow of dawn, and then he reaches across and pulls her back against his chest, his fingers knotted in the soft cotton of her tank top.

She sighs and leans into him, her neck and shoulders relaxing. "I know you're upset with me."

He grunts.

"But, Draco, please, try to understand. I _need_ to do this. Harry and Ron need me to go."

"Of course they do. Idiots couldn't even figure out how to tie their own shoelaces without you."

He watches her profile, a glimmer of a smile ghosting across her face before she sighs again.

Suddenly even more angered by her silence, he nudges her to face him and asks, voice rough, "Why won't you let me come?"

"It's not—you should stay here, with everyone else. In case something happens."

"We both know that that's a poor lie. Even for you," he growls, giving her a significant look.

She drops his gaze guiltily. "Draco, just—just trust me on this, okay? Just trust me that this is how it needs to be."

"How can I trust you if you won't even tell me what the fuck is going on?"

She places her finger against his mouth, effectively silencing him, and he should be annoyed, should be furious by her cryptic messages and her fucking self-importance, but her fingers are soft and her gaze is tender, and he suddenly doesn't want to fight, doesn't want to yell. He just wants to hold her.

She searches his eyes, her own pupils dilated with urgency. "Dumbledore planned it, you know?"

He furrows his brows, gives her a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

"The assignment—the class. He planned it all."

"Well, of course he did. He told us as much that first day didn't he? Interhouse cooperation or some shit—"

"No," she interrupts him, placing her hands on his chest, "he said that he placed us together because he thought…" she trails off, her voice suddenly unsure. Her fingers rub against the fabric of his t-shirt, and he stills her hands. She breathes out, " He thought that I could save you."

"What?"

"He knew…he knew that you had been tasked with something by Voldemort, and he thought that I could…that I could help you. Help save you." She doesn't say _from that_ but he can feel the words swimming in the space between them.

Realization jostles uncomfortably in his stomach, and he gives her a hard look. "Is that why you said you could change my mind? Is that why—is that why you _seduced_ me?" There's an edge to his voice now.

She grasps his shoulders, her fingers tight and says, low and serious, "No, _no._ I wanted to help, yes. I thought you were worth saving." He stares at her, unblinking, his eyes still hard. "But how I felt about you in the end, that was organic. I—I fell in love with you. Merlin, help me, but I did."

A beat, and then, chastened, he touches her cheek. She sniffs delicately and says, voice haughty, "Plus, I would hardly say _I_ seduced _you._ "

He smirks and says in a high, mocking, voice "Oh, Malfoy, please, _please."_

She smacks him across the chest, and he laughs, the exhale ruffling her frizzy curls. A thought occurs to him, and he can't help the amusement from creeping into his voice. "Do you think that _that,_ " he gives her a wolfish look, "is what Dumbledore had in mind when he thought you could save me?"

"Ugh," she shoots him a disgusted glare, "is that all you think about? Hard _ly._ Besides, I don't want to think about our headmaster planning something like _that,_ "her noses scrunches up adorably, "regarding us."

He runs a hand through her hair, settling on the nape of her neck. "Savior by shagging," he muses aloud, and she smacks him again, hiding her smile in his shoulder.

 _June, 1997_

She's been gone for only two weeks when he feels the erratic pounding emanating from the charmed pendant he wears. Defeated towards the end, knowing nothing he could give her would make her stay; he had instead insisted she give him two things.

The first is a locked enchanted so that he could always feel her heartbeat, as long as she's wearing its companion. It's something his mother had given him before they walked out of the manor for the last time-her to a safe house, and him to 12 Grimmauld Place- his mother's whispered _as long as you're alive mine will shine._ He makes a copy of the pendant Narcissa thrust into his hand, with a few modifications, and he doesn't tell Granger that it's made from a bit of dark magic. Every night he waits for the gradual slowing of her heartbeats until he feels its safe enough to close his eyes.

The second is a portkey he keeps swaddled in a thick handkerchief and locked in the bedside drawer. Once activated, the portkey will take him wherever she is. Before she had handed it over, she had given him an exasperated look and said, in a voice reminiscent of their early days as inept professors, "You must only use this in the most dire situations. Promise me- _look_ at me- promise me you won't use this unless it is _absolutely necessary."_ And he had glared at her before snatching the cloth from her hands, muttering a "—bloody well promise," and stalking away.

The necklace had been active in the past two weeks. Small spurts of activity that had probably indicated physical exertion on her part, or maybe even laughter, but there's something different about this time, something wrong with how the pendant almost seems to burn with the rapidity of movement. He puts his finger to the onyx in the middle and there's a thrumming beneath the surface that twines a coil of dread across his chest.

 _Granger, for Merlin's sake please don't have done something stupid_

Suddenly, the pendant starts to burn, and with a curse, he wrenches it off, the black stone glowing red against the carpet. He reaches for the necklace, holding it by the gold chain. Something's different—there's no longer an aura of energy around it. Tentatively, bracing himself for the heat, he reaches out a finger to touch the surface of the black stone, but he feels nothing. No heartbeat, no thrumming, no _life,_ he thinks darkly.

"Fuck," he roars. He drops to his knees, reaching underneath the bed for the box that holds the key. His hands are shaking as he unlocks the nightstand and pulls out a white handkerchief, the small weight of the portkey resting in his palms as he dashes down the hall.

He rushes into the kitchen. The Weasleys and a few other scattered members of the Order are sitting at the wooden dining table, poring over what looks like battle plans and maps.

"Something's wrong," he rushes out.

"What do you mean?" Arthur Weasley is staring at him, brows furrowed.

He growls impatiently, "Something's not right. Granger—they're in trouble."

"Well, how would you know that?" The Weaselette's snotty tone makes him turn to face her with a murderous glare.

"The necklace," he holds the chain up, "it doesn't feel right."

A dozen pairs of eyes stare back at him incredulously. "No, no—you don't understand. It's charmed to show the pace of her heartbeat. It started beating erratically and then suddenly stopped. Something must have happened."

Charlie speaks up next, his tone slow, probably attempting to be calming. "Maybe she just took it off, Malfoy."

"No!" he roars out, frustrated, "She doesn't ever take it off! Will you just fucking listen to me?" He slams his palm against the wall and three more of the Weasleys stand up, clearly ready to intervene.

He shoots them all a harried, angry glare and then makes up his mind. " _Fuck,_ you all are useless. I need to go—just _pay attention_. We might need backup." And then, taking a deep, solidifying breath, he tore the handkerchief away and grasped the portkey tightly, the pressure behind his navel sucking him away.

He lands hard, dropping down to his knees on the dusty wood flooring. When he looks up, all the air rushes out of his lungs as his eyes land on familiar grey ones.

"Father," he says stupidly, his eyes squinted.

His father looks dirty and exhausted. His pale skin almost translucent in the weak light filtering through the windows. Next to him stands Scabior, and Greyback. Draco darts his gaze across the room, taking in Potter and Weasley's deformed faces, their limbs magically bound behind them.

Then, his eyes land on her, and his blood freezes, turning his body cold. Her body is twisted in an unnatural angle, her eyes unfocused and glossy. There's a gash on her head that is bleeding heavily, but from the small rise and fall of her chest he knows she's at least still breathing.

"Granger," he whispers, stunned. He feels bile rising in his throat, and the acidity makes him swallow hard.

"Draco," Bellatrix croons, coming to stand in front of him. She smiles widely, her teeth glinting dangerously. "Lovely of you to join us! Came to see your dirty, little mudblood, have you?" Her laugh is loud and manic in the room.

He's on his feet in a flash, wand pointed at her. "Don't you dare call her that."

"Ooooh, little Draco's all grown up, isn't he?" She turns to his father, who looks away. Then, she suddenly darts around and screams, a beam of yellow light sending him onto his back, vines crawling over his skin and immobilizing him. "How dare you," she seethes, standing above him with her wand still pointed at him, "How _dare_ you raise your wand at your aunt?"

He sneers at her, struggling against the magical bonds. " _Fuck_ you, Bellatrix."

She laughs, twirling around back to where Hermione is laying. "Okay, darling, but I don't think your missus here would much appreciate that." Then, she smiles at him, before her eyes flicker with something dark and she points her wand at Hermione.

" _CRUCIO."_

 _"NO!"_ Draco's yell comes out in tandem with Weasley's.

She starts convulsing on the floor, her limbs twisting into horrifying angles as a scream rips from her throat. Bellatrix laughs and claps her hands, twisting her wand to the right as Hermione back arches up and then drops to the ground, her head smacking against the floor with a sickening _thud_ that makes Draco turn his head away.

"Oh, no, no, that won't do, Draco." Her voice is sing-songy. "Don't you see? You have to watch this happen!" She laughs gleefully, and then he feels an invisible hand twisting his head around, forcing him to watch as Bellatrix drops down onto Hermione savagely and bites her shoulder. Her scream is so loud, so pure, that the air seems to stop moving as the sound crescendos. Bellatrix's lips are dark red, and her grin seems even more homicidal as she says, "Now, the finishing touch." She starts carving something into the skin of Hermione's forearm, and Hermione bucks and screams, thrashing and fighting to get his aunt off of her.

"Shut _UP_ ," the older witch says, backhanding Hermione across the face. "Shut up or I'll hex your whole arm off."

Hermione whimpers, and her eyes meet Draco's. A tear falls down her cheek, and Draco watches it entranced as her screams echo out around him.

"Please, please, _please."_

Bellatrix howls with laughter. "Oh, Dray-co," she sings, "I didn't know this one loved to beg quite so much."

" _FUCK,"_ he swears viciously, fighting against his restraints.

Weasley is fighting against his as well, thrashing and screaming. His face is bright red, making the blood working its way down his cheek even more grotesque, and in that moment Draco almost feels a sick sense of kinship with him.

His eyes dart to the left, to Potter, but there's something off about the dark-haired wizard. He's not looking at the scene, and his face has an impassive rigidity to it, his shoulder pulled stiff behind his back. He seems to be wriggling around, intensely concentrated on angling his body, and it makes Draco unbearably angry. He suddenly wishes he could hex him. _How could he just stand there and not feel anything?_

Hermione's screaming has somehow managed to rise in pitch. At a pause in the screaming, Bellatrix moves back a few feet and surveys her work, swaying from side to side as she claps her hands, and Potter shoots him some strange look. Draco ignores it, choosing to squeezes his eyes shut instead, his nails cutting sharp crescents into his palms.

"Hey, Bellatrix," Potter says suddenly, and Draco's eyes shoot open at the sound. "Think fast."

There's a deafening crash as the glass chandelier above Bellatrix swings in a wide arc and falls, sending pieces of glass everywhere.

The vines around him suddenly disappear, and he sends a hand flying up to protect his eyes from the wayward pieces of glass. Gregovitch and Greyback leap forward, wands ready, but Potter disarms them easily, shooting a quick spell that releases Ron in the process.

Draco's up and running towards Hermione. He drops to his knees beside her, checking for a pulse, and when he finds one he pulls her close and whispers a ragged, "Hermione" against her ear. Weasley glances over, locking eyes with Draco, who nods once, stiffly, silently putting their worst fear to rest for the moment. Then, the redhead throws up his wand, and sends out a brilliant stream of wispy, silver light in the shape of a small dog. The dog looks around once, wagging his tail and then scampers towards Ron, looking at him expectantly. Weasley speaks rapidly, but Draco can't hear what he says over the sounds of shouting around them, and then the terrier runs off quickly, disappearing from view as Ron shoots a spell at Scabior that sends him flying to the ground.

Potter runs towards him, grabbing his shoulder roughly. "Get her out of here," he shouts, and Draco nods, turning to grab hold of Granger's arm when his father suddenly materializes in front of him, disarming Potter with one quick motion before he points his wand at Draco.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that." His father's words are cold and even, but there's something about his countenance that is at odds with his voice. Up close, Draco can see that Lucius has lost weight, his robes hang off of him, and his cheekbones are sunken in, giving him the gaunt appearance of a prisoner. There's _something_ in his grey eyes too—they look dull and lifeless, but there's also a sliver of something that Draco might think is _fear._

"Don't," Draco breathes out harshly, raising his own wand.

Potter leans left, tensing to reach for his wand, but Lucius mutters something and Potter's suddenly bound again. Lucius barely spares the raven-haired wizard a glance before focusing on Draco again.

"I'm ashamed of you, Draco. Look," he seethes, waving an arm behind him "at what you've caused."

Draco sneers, his hand trembling slightly even as he holds his father's gaze. "Well, _father,_ I can't say that I'm too proud of you right now either."

Lucius' jaw tightens, and his fingers clench hard on his wand. "It's a pity, really," he says, slowly, calculatingly, "Your mother and I had such high hopes for you."

Draco clutches his own wand tighter, his other hand curled underneath Granger's shoulder. He swallows hard, something slick like _fear_ or _regret_ coursing up his arm, making it tremble as he aims it at his father. The older man stares him down, eyes sharp and hard, like he's searching for something on Draco's face.

Then, the older man's lips thin, and he opens his mouth before he suddenly pitches forward, whatever he was going to say lost in the blinding green light that erupts behind him.

Ron Weasley makes eye contact with Potter and him, his face grim and his wand raised in the place that Lucius had been standing a moment ago, the _Avada Kervada_ echoing still echo around them.

A beat, and then he says, evenly, "I sent a patronus to the Order. They should be here soon.

A strange sound erupts from Draco's mouth, and his chest hurts with how fast he's breathing. Potter gives him an unreadable stare, and Draco turns away, his fingers digging into Granger's shoulder in a way that he know will leave marks. Ron looks around, his wand raised, and then, suddenly, the sound of apparation fills the room, and flashes of red stream past them.

"Ronald," Molly Weasley comes up, grasping her son's face in her hands, "What's happened?" She looks between him and Potter with wide eyes.

"They took us here," Potter says, "They—they tortured her," he points at Hermione's limp body, and Molly's gaze fills with horror.

" _Merlin_ ," she breathes out, eyes roaming over Hermione's form. Draco wants to hit her.

"We should go," Potter says. "I don't know if there will be more Death Eaters coming soon."

Draco feels someone touch his shoulder, and he wrenches himself away. His mother's eyes come into view. The dark brown of her irises filled with concern. He hasn't seen his mother in months; she's been at a safe house owned by the Order, and he stopped writing to her the last few weeks as the battles grew more frequent, everyone concerned about breached security. But his mother is suddenly here in front of him, her face older and weathered. She must have come with the rest of the order.

"Mother," he says, dazed and confused.

She runs a hand down his cheek, and says, "Come here," as she grasps his and Granger's arms. Then, in a clap of sound, they're gone.

 _July, 1997_

He passes Weasley on his way out of her room. The readhead is right outside the door, and Draco has to veer sharply to the left to avoid colliding into him.

Draco's jaw clenches as he moves past Ron, giving him a curt nod. A myriad of emotions flash across the freckled man's face, and he swallows before opening his mouth, poised to say something.

"Don't," Draco says, lowly, holding up his palm slightly before his fingers curl into a fist and he exhales nosily.

Weasley shuts his mouth, and Draco doesn't look back as he walks away.

 _August, 1997_

"Draco, darling, have you been sleeping? You look awful."

He snorts, shooting his mother a look before his gaze falls once more to the amber liquid he's nursing. He's visiting her at the safe house, one of their country houses that had been reinforced with wards from the Order. It's a sprawling estate in Germany, but he notices that Narcissa confines herself to two rooms, like she's afraid of what she'll find hidden in the walls if she ventures too far.

His mother sighs and places her hands in her lap, fingers interlocked. She studies him, and her gaze makes him suddenly, irrationally angry.

He slams his glass down; surprised it doesn't break from the force, and glares at her.

"How is she?" She says, unflinching.

He looks away, fingers clenched against the arm of the sofa.

"Is she recovering all right?"

"Fine."

"Draco," his mother looks up and exhales. "I never wanted that to happen to her."

"Yet you so valiantly supported a cause that did," he snaps back.

He knows he shouldn't be so hard on his mother. After all, it was Narcissa who apparated them back to the manor and tended to Hermione when he was too much of a wreck to do anything but rock her back and forth, pressing his lips into her hair and his fingers into her neck, desperate for assurance in that light, faint thudding of her heartbeat.

It was Narcissa who cleaned her up, healed her arm as best as she could, and force fed her pain potion and Draught of Living Death. And it was Narcissa who later held him as convulsed in shock and fear, who put him to bed, even after her own husband had just been murdered.

But every time he sees his mother he thinks about the mark, and his father, and he doesn't know how not to hate her with everything raging on outside, with the war at their doorsteps, so he lashes out.

She gives him a searching look. "I wish I had known what I know now."

"Well, isn't that lovely?" His tone is dangerously low.

Her lips thin in anger, but her eyes are clear when she levels her stare, her neck elongating as she meets his scowl.

He exhales, cursing under his breath. "She's recovering. She was in shock for a while, and she's still not at full strength, but the healers say she's doing well."

A tiny smile flits across her face. "And her arm? How is that?"

He looks away. "They'll never get it out." The healer had said it would never fully vanish, but would eventually fade into something barely noticeable, and something in his heart had churned painfully with the admission.

Narcissa makes a small noise of discontent. "I—"

"Don't," he says, harshly.

"Your father—"

He suddenly rises, hovering in a half-standing half-sitting position, and snarls, "My father _what."_

Narcissa swallows hard, but doesn't break his stare. "You father loved you."

He snorts so loudly he wonders if even the house-elves can hear it. "My father tried to _kill_ me."

She looks away, pained. A beat passes; the only sound in the room the chiming of the grandfather clock. Finally, she says, slowly, her voice strained, "That wasn't your father."

 _September, 1997_

"Mhhm," she sighs contentedly as he funnels a hand through her hair, the other one lightly twirling his wand. He's sitting on an armchair, and she's seated on his lap, her nose stuck deep inside a book.

Things have been tense around here lately, everyone shaken by the events in the manor, and everyone on edge for the next attack to come. At night, his muscles tensing over every small creak in the house, he had the overwhelming feeling that war had ruined them already, that there would be no going back after this. He keeps his arm on her at all times, the memory of her convulsing and broken etched into his brain.

She puts the book down, resting the side of her head against his shoulder. He swallows, and she reaches up to trace his Adam's apple, her fingers tickling the sensitive skin there.

He stills her hand, brings it up to his lips and kisses it. She touches his lips softly, her fingers moving over the surface slowly, and he gives her a meaningful look that she holds.

"I think people are all born good," she announces suddenly, and he tenses under her, unsure of how to respond. "But then things happen," she makes a waving gesture, "and ideologies change, beliefs mutate. I think, well, I think everyone has the capacity to love."

He snorts, and she glares at him, her fingers coming to rest on his chest as she says, forcefully, "I do I think everyone has the _capability_ to love. Not that everyone does it right."

He snorts again, louder, and gives her a look. "People? As in, all human kind? Even the da—even Voldemort?"

She sniffs delicately, and levels him with a stare. "Yes, even him. I imagine-" she falters a little, but then juts her chin out and continues, "—I imagine that before there must have been something there. Prior to the horcruxes, I mean."

"Don't be deluded. It doesn't suit you."

She turns, facing him. "What about mothers? Think about their love for their children, even when they've done something terrible.

He stiffens, his thoughts turning towards his own mother, and her gaze softens when she sees his look. "Draco," she says, her hand coming up, "I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't talking ab—"

"Doesn't matter," he says darkly. "Leave it."

"I just think," she clears her throat, "I just think that everyone has good inside of them."

"Hate," he says, over-enunciating the syllables, "not love, is something everyone is capable of. It's based on fear; and everyone can fear. We come out of the womb with our fists clutched around fear, terrified of this cold, loud environment we're suddenly expelled into."

"And love is the first thing we feel when we come into this world. The love our parents have for us."

Her gaze is soft but intense as she studies his reactions. He flexes his jaw. "Do you really believe what you're saying right now?" His tone borders on cruel.

She huffs, "Yes, Draco, I really do,"

He grabs her forearm, his touch softening when she flinches under his hold, and turns the creamy skin around. The scar-mudblood-is still there, red and angry, the lines ragged and rough under his finger. She wears long sleeves mostly now.

He traces the words on her skin, his touch light as his eyes burn into hers. "I don't think some people are meant to love, Granger."

Her eyes lighten with understanding, and hushed, she places a hand against his.

 _January, 1998_

The war ends on a bleak winter day, the pale rays of morning casting a serene pallor over the bodies of the dead. The golden trio survives, but the Order is irreparably broken by the loss of Remus, Tonks, Fred, Mad Eye, and, of course, Dumbledore.

He loses her in the final battle. One minute she is beside him, back pressed against his as they shot disarming spells at a circle of death eaters inside the great hall. And then, with Potter's scream, she was gone, running to where one-third of her heart is, leaving him to step around the fallen bodies of his childhood friends as he spun around wildly, searching for her.

Four death eaters blinded-sided him as he ran, and when he fell, his head ricocheting off the hard stone, he thought he could taste the honey of her mouth on his tongue, a gentle lull that everything would be all right, and it was okay to let go, finally. But then a blinding flash of green that made him close his eyes, and when he opened them Molly Weasley's concerned face was hovering over him, her hand extended to help him up.

On shaky knees, he followed the matron outside, where Potter is sprawled on his hands and knees, chest rising with shaky breaths. When he sees her to his right, his chest grows light with relief and he runs to her, pulling her close. He buries his nose in her wild, riotous curls and breathes in her scent.

"Draco," she breathes out, and her tears skim the side of his face. "It's over. _Jesus,"_ her voice cracks, and she shudders once against him, "it's finally over."

* * *

 _Reviews fuel the soul and the muse!_


	4. Chapter 4

_October, 1999_

He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, while she's making tea in the kitchen. They've been staying in number 12 Grimmauld place for the last year, but it's only been a few months since the rest of them had left, leaving the place cloaked in a preternatural silence. Everyone had gotten so used to staying there. After the war ended, it seemed unnatural to leave a place steeped with so much of their blood.

Potter and Weasley were the last to go; Weasley shooting him a baleful look that he returned, and Potter shuffling in front of the door, looking like he wanted to say something before he awkwardly patted Malfoy on the back and said, 'Take care of each other."

He stays because he has nowhere to go, and because he doesn't mind the dusty comfort of the headquarters anymore. And she stays, he suspects, because she loves him enough to do so. Malfoy Manor is gone, set ablaze during an attack, and then later demolished in an act of mercy. His mother is currently situated at one of their summer homes in France, the house in Germany abandoned after it's purpose was gone. Though he misses her, the thought of living with her again, with all the memories, makes his skin prick.

She still has a childhood home to return to, though. She was able to find her parents and reinstate their memories, but, she confesses to him late one night, their bodies so tangled together he doesn't know where she begins and he ends, "It doesn't feel right, going back home…not when I've _killed—"_ and for once, hushed with understanding, and maybe empathy, he had pulled her close and said nothing.

Her fingers swirl above her favorite ceramic mug, the _clink_ of the spoon the only sound in the room. He buries his face into the mess of curls by her neck, and he expects her to lean back, reach behind her to rest a palm against his face, but she's rigid, her hands still swirling the lightening liquid.

He switches tactics, kissing her neck, dragging his tongue lightly up the tender skin right beneath her ear. She makes a breathy little sound, but her fingers are still clasped tightly around the silver.

He leans forward slightly, catching a sideways glance at her face and finds her eyes still downcast on the tea. She has very specific preferences when it comes to tea: two sugars, enough milk to turn the liquid into a milky, ochre color; then, stir until it cooled; warm, but not scalding. It took him weeks to get it just right, but he still remembers how wide her smile had been when she took a sip from the cup he had offered her, her suspicious gazing melting into a smile that she seems to have reserved for him over the years.

He drags a hand up her side, dragging her t-shirt up slightly while his other hand drifts towards her hips. "Hello, Granger."

He expects her to laugh, or reach behind and cup his cheek with her palm, but when she does neither, her fingers still clasped tightly against the spoon, he kisses her shoulder and says against the soft skin there, "I have a surprise to show you."

He tries to catch her gaze, but she focuses it on the flames licking the underside of the kettle. He smirks; he likes it when she makes him work for it.

" _Oh?_ " He says, "You're not a little bit curious what I've got for you?" He pushes himself against her, letting her know exactly what kind of surprise he has. She still doesn't move, and he furrows his brow, and tries again, "Granger?"

She stays silent, but her fingers have loosened from the spoon, and she's completely still against him. He turns her to face him. "What's going on?"

She opens her mouth, and he watches the small hill of her Adam's apple bob as she swallows. He stares at her, expectantly, but when she still says nothing, he reaches forward, placing his fingers under her chin and trying to tilt her gaze up.

Her chin pushes into his hand, her gaze not lifting, and he cups his palm across her cheek, his fingers cradling her jaw and pushing up gently until she finally looks at him.

Her eyes are glossy, and he tilts his head, confused, as he searches them.

She opens her mouth, her tongue darting nervously. "Draco, how do you feel about me?" She says the words slowly, like the sounds are strange in her own mouth.

His eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"I just—I need to know…" She trails, off, lips quivering. "I mean," she lets out a jerky exhale, and he can tell by the slight rigidity making its way through her posture that she's bracing for impact, "how do you _feel_ about me?"

He wants to laugh. After everything, after the tears, and the sweat he can still feel at the base of his throat, after the bloodshed, and the weight of the Avadas they'll never be able to get out of their wands, _this_ is what she wants to know? It's ridiculous, laughable, stupid, a waste of time. So he laughs. As if it isn't obvious; as if he hasn't shown it a thousand ways, a million ways, ever since they left Hogwarts, and maybe even before then.

She wrenches herself from his hold, shooting him a scathing look, and says, stiffly, "I don't see how this is funny at all."

"Of course you don't. You obviously don't understand how ridiculous this is."

Her glare deepens, her voice raising with anger, "how _ridiculous—"_

"Yes, _clearly,"_ his shouts, tone matching hers.

"Well, why don't you explain it to me then."

" _Explain_ it to you?" He throws his arms out, exasperated, "Haven't I already _done_ enough to show you?"

"Then why can't you say it?" Her voice cracks, and she scrapes in a breath, and closes her eyes, tilting her head back like she's in physical pain. "Why can't you just tell me how you feel? Why won't you tell me?" When she opens her eyes, a silvery trail of tears drips onto her t-shirt, and she reaches up, wiping at her eyes angrily.

"Because you already bloody _know!"_ He roars out, frustrated, and thinks _isn't it obvious?_

"How could I if you _won't tell me."_ She sniffs pathetically, and he turns away from her, bracing his palms on the kitchen countertop. His chest hurts. Badly.

"Just tell me what _this_ ," he winces at her choice of words, suddenly glad that she can't see his face, "is. Just—just tell me." Her voice grows plaintive at the end, and his knuckles turn white from the pressure with which he's clenching down on the wood.

When he stays silent, she repeats, "Why won't you tell me? Unless," she pauses, pulling in a shuddering breath, and he closes his eyes, biting down on his teeth so hard he feels his molars will shatter from the force, "unless you don't feel the same way." He thinks that if he could see her right now he would see her spine straightening, her posture becoming rigid as she steeled herself. _Defensive,_ she had yelled at him once, in the midst of fighting, and he had wanted to chuckle at the irony of it. She was the one who locked herself away, fortified the walls around her, leaving him grappling to climb the fortress as best as he could, cracking his knees open on the stones every damn time.

A sharp inhale comes from somewhere behind him, and then: "I may be a lot of things, but I've never made you _wonder_ how I felt, made you guess at what _this,"_ that stupid word again, that stupid way she said it, "is. I've always been honest with you. Too honest, even. Too willing." Her voice trails off, like she's talking to herself, but she focuses again and says, "I used to think after the war you'd say it. But the war's been over for almost a year now, and you still haven't said it, so maybe," her voice gets smaller, weaker, "maybe what I really thought was, that after the war you'd _see_ this," she hums frustrated, "for what it was. And maybe," she pauses abruptly, her voice twisting in anguish, "maybe you don't see it that way at all."

"I didn't realize you could be so deluded."

She flinches, something flashing in her eyes, and he curses himself.

"Granger," he says, tone softening, and he closes his eyes, frustrated, trying to find the right words, the right courage- _he's not made for war-_ "You know—" he says, voice thicker with something he hopes she can interpret.

"But that's just it!" She shouts, throwing her hands up. Her curls whip forward with the force of the movement. "I _don't_ know."

"Well, then I apologize if I've vastly overestimated your intelligence!" His voice climbs in volume, matching hers.

"Don't—don't _do_ that!" Her voice is high, borderline hysterical, and it hurts his ears, makes his body feel electrified, but in all the wrong ways.

His chest feels strange, like his ribcage is simultaneously too tight, squeezing the already limited air in the room out of his lungs, and too loose, precariously close to fall open so that his chest cavity will tip over and send his heart spinning out onto the linoleum floor. Everything is too bright, too vibrant, to _full. Too soon,_ he thinks, grimacing.

"Why can't you say it!" She's shouting again, but her eyes are anguished. "The war's over, Draco. Everything we fought for, everything we _killed_ for—it's all done, _finished._ It's the _after_ , now. So why can't you just tell me that you love me?" Her cheeks are wet, and silvery line lines of tears are dripping onto her t-shirt.

She pauses again, then moves further away from him, her arms wrapped around herself "And I've waited, and waited, but" her voice cracks, and she lets out a shuddering breath, "I'm starting to think. Maybe you don't. Maybe that's why you haven't said it." By the end of her sentence, her voice is whisper soft, so fragile he has to strain to hear the rest. "And if that's true—if you don't feel the same way. Then, please, _please_ let me go."

Her footsteps come closer, but she doesn't reach out to touch him, and he thinks the distance between them must be staggering right now. "I'll probably never be able to fully get you out of my skin. You've," she laughs, the sound scornful to his ears, "you've _infected_ me so thoroughly I'll probably never get you out. But, I won't do this with you anymore." She sniffs, the breath coming out jerky. "I won't do it."

He hasn't turned from his position; his neck is so tight with tension that he can feel knots forming under it. His mouth is open, rounded on all the things he wants to say, everything that is _so obvious_ that it's blasphemous to say them out lout, to be that extravagant and ostentatious. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip, pushing against the back of his incisors, waiting, but then she lets out a breathy little whimper and his concentration is lost in the sudden rupture of sound, the thunder of her apparation filling whatever words he might have said.

 _December, 2000_

"You know, Draco," his mother says from across the table, "you've never been a particularly good liar."

He glares at her and scoffs, affronted. He's a Slytherin _and_ a Malfoy, after all.

She laughs lightly. "Well, at least not to me." He's spending the week with her, and though he loves her, he finds her constant hovering and her intense _observation_ of him disconcerting.

He makes a noncommittal noise, focusing on the amber liquid in his glass.

"She's…well, she's not what I expected."

His head whips up, his surprised eyes finding her amused brown ones. His mother has met Granger a few times, the civility between them so polite and forced that he had wanted to tear his hair out by the roots, each time convinced that he was the one who wanted to flee the scene the fastest.

"And, I can't exactly say that I approve—"

He makes a growling sound, low with warning.

She glares at him, raising her voice to drown him out, " _but_ the war changed things," her tone and her eyes soften, "and if you love her—"

He stands, cutting her off. "I'm going to bed," he says, turning for the door and letting his glass drop down to the marble table with a sharp _clink._

 _October, 2001_

Potter's owl arrives early on a Saturday morning, and Draco is so surprised to see Hedwig tapping at his window that he almost doesn't open it, convinced that it is a trick of light.

In Potter's messy, child-like scrawl he had written, _The Leaky Cauldron. Tomorrow, at 3 p.m—don't be late_ and Draco had stared and stared at the black ink until Hedwig let out an annoyed sound, scraping his claws against the windowsill and Draco had handed him a parchment with _Okay_ written on it.

He gets there first, scanning the dim interior for Potter's messy hair before he takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of firewhiskey. Potter arrives five minutes later, nodding to him as he sits down next to him.

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

Harry orders a beer, and the silence between them stretches out, tense and awkward. Potter makes some weird throat-clearing sound and then turns to him, and Draco tenses, anticipating a blow of some sort, but all Potter says is, "How are you?"

He gives him an incredulous look, and says, slowly, "I'm alright." A pause. "How are you?"

Potter grins and takes a sip of the copper liquid. "I'm good. Work has been busy, otherwise good." He pauses briefly before adding, "How are things at your company?"

Draco's eyebrows bunch together in confusion, but he answers anyways. "Fine." Things have been busy as of late; His team is researching a new company to see if they want to invest, and his head had been so full of statistics and numbers that he has less time to think about _her._

Harry nods thoughtfully, seemingly unperturbed by the tense answers Draco gives him.

They sip their drinks in silence until Draco finally growls, "Get on with it, Potter. Are you going to hex me or something?" He snorts, and mutters, "If you're lucky I'll even let you have first aim."

Potter laughs, "No. I didn't invite you here to hex you."

"You're not going to defend the honor of your best friend and the Weasel?" Draco keeps his tone light and sarcastic, but there is an undercurrent of curiosity that he can't wipe out.

Potter appears thoughtful, and his lips turn down slightly. "I want Hermione and Ron to be happy, yes." Draco swallows. "But I just wanted to see if you were alright." Draco gives him a disbelieving look. "None of us have heard from you in a while."

"Yeah, well," Draco scoffs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass around, "There wasn't really much to talk about or show up for after," he makes a strange, breathy inhale, " _her,_ was there?" He knows the golden trio had only tolerated him because he was Hermione's, because she had endlessly advocated for her, defended him, loved him until even Ron got tired of convincing her she had gone mad. So after their _break_ there was nothing really left to tolerate, was there?

Harry doesn't say anything, and when Draco looks up to find the darker haired man staring at him, he makes an annoyed sound, ready to snap at him, but then Potter says, "You love her, don't you?" And Draco stays silent, vines crawling up and twisting against his voicebox so that he can't say what he wants.

"I make her miserable," he says, instead.

Potter is rolling his wand on the table, his palm flat against the wood, and his eyebrows furrowed in consternation. "Yes, you made her miserable," Malfoy flinches, but doesn't counter, "but—" Harry pauses, like he is looking for the right words, "when she was with you she—" a corner of his mouth curls up in a half-smile, and Malfoy fidgets with discomfort, "—she glowed."

Something in his lungs hurts, the vines changing direction and twisting around the flesh there instead, so he waits to answer, hoping that stabbing pain will go away with another sip of his firewhiskey. He clears his throat, tilting the circular bottom of the glass against the wooden tabletop. "Maybe."

They don't talk about her the rest of lunch, and he finds that he isn't as aggravated by Potter's company as he thought he would. The afternoon ends with an invitation to a quidditch game that Potter is hosting for his department, and Draco offers up a noncommittal _maybe_ instead of the hard _no_ he had planned.

At the threshold of the pub, Potter claps a hand on his back and they turn in the opposite directions. Right before Draco's about to apparate, Harry's voice rings out. "She loves you, you know?" And when Draco looks back, the darker-haired man is giving him a significant look, the _crack_ of his apparation mingling with his parting words to create a dull ringing in Draco's ears. He steps into his flat and drops his keys against the kitchen counter, draping his robe against a chair as he steps further inside.

He runs a hand through his hair, the other hand twirling his wand between his fingers. Potter's words run through his head _miserableglowedmiserableglowedmiserablegloweshelovesyoushelovesyoushelovesyounotshelovesyou_ and he lets out a growl as he sits down heavily on the leather armchair in his living room.

He reaches into the drawer on his coffee table, feeling around blindly until he finds the hard edges of the card. He pulls it out and stares at the moving picture plastered on the front. In cream-colored italics it says, _You're cordially invited to the engagement party of Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley._ The invitation had come two weeks ago, and Draco had clenched his fist so hard around the cardstock that he had to cast two unwrinkling charms on it before it was readable again. The backdrop of the invitation is a picture of them dancing together, his limbs awkward and loose as he spins her around the dance floor. But her smile is kind and she is laughing as he suddenly dips her. There is a brief moment right before the picture repeats itself that Hermione glances at the camera suddenly, and when Draco's eyes meet her facsimile's warm, brown ones, the air catches in his throat.

Suddenly, he's running out of his flat and down the stairs, his Italian leather loafers slapping against the damp pavement before he lets out an incredulous chuckle and apparatus there in a flash.

The house is a muted sort of yellow, ugly and cheery, on the outside, somewhat reminiscent of the burrow. He hasn't ever been here before, but he's seen enough pictures to get there in one piece, and he lands just in front of the white picket fence bordering the property.

He unlocks the gate in hurry and stomps up the steps to her front door, his knuckles rapping against the wood before he can take in a deep breath. She answers the door a moment later. Her hair tied back in an overflowing bun on the nape of her neck. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she gazes from his shoes up to his face. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and then he's suddenly rushing to get everything out before he can stop himself.

"I finally figured it out, you know." She stares at him quizzically, and he continues, out of breath, words almost slurring together in his haste. "I finally figured it out and I came here—I came here to tell you that I love you." She blinks twice, two rapid, jerky movements of her eyelids against the warm brown of her irises and his heart aches. "I do, Granger. For a long time now." He lets out a long breath," I'm shit at this," and then he chuckles mirthlessly, and raises one shoulder, "and I won't always say I love you, or remember our anniversary. I won't always call you beautiful or smother you in platitudes and flowers. I'll fight with you and tease you and mock you. I'll argue you with, and then shag you senseless, probably," a corner of her mouth lifts in the ghost of a grin, and he presses on, emboldened, "but I'll challenge you, and I'll always push you to be who you are, because—" he swallows thickly, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth, "because you make me _better_." He pauses, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, "you drove me—you _drive_ me absolutely mad," and then he held up his palm, recognizing the flash of annoyance that crosses her face, and continues, louder, "and I know I make you miserable sometimes. But Grang— _Hermione,"_ he says her name like a prayer, and she blinks again, rapidly, eyes opening wide, like she's making sure he's really here, "I'll _always_ mean what I say. And I'll learn," he breathes out what might be a chuckle, "I'm learn _ing,_ to say what I mean."

There's a beat of silence where he wonders whether his chest will explode and his heart will land against the doorstep at her feet, pulsing, like an offering. Then she says, "Oh, Draco," plaintively, her eyes wet and sad in the autumn chill. She is giving him the same look she gave him that night when they argued over whether or not people were born with the innate ability to love, that same look she gave him after his father died—not insulting enough to be pity, but something soft and tender that makes his stomach cramp up.

 _Nononononono_ "Don't," he rasps out, understanding cracking against him in a sheet of frozen ice. His fingers dig into the doorframe to support himself as his knees become weak. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see that soft, wet look on her face anymore, and he scraps in a breath, attempting to stomp down the burning in his throat.

"Draco," she says, softly, and he feels her finger touch his shoulder gently. He jerks back, like he's been burned, and when he opens his eyes, she looks wounded, her hand still hovering in the space between them.

He stares at her, and his nostrils flare with the effort it takes not to apparate away, to disappear and forget this ever happened.

She touches the delicate line of her clavicle, placing her palm against it protectively, and says, so quietly he thought he might have misheard her at first. "I'm pregnant."

All the air rushes out of him in a _whoosh,_ and the sounds around them dull into a roaring of blood in his ears. He looks down her body to see her other hand placed against her abdomen, and now he can see the faint hill of it through her loose cardigan. Then he looks up again at her, sharply, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "How far along are you?" He asks her, his tongue a dead weight in his mouth. Her pretty, pink mouth turns down into a frown and she says softly, "five and a half months." He doesn't need to look up to know that she's thinking the same thing he is—he hasn't seen her in over seven.

 _SevenmonthsthreeandahalfmonthSevenmonthsthreeandahalfmonths_

Something splinters in his chest, and a crushing weight falls against the bottom of his stomach, _cracking_ as sharp pieces embed themselves into the walls of his abdomen, making him stumble back a few steps. She reaches for him, as if worried he will fall over, but her fingers close around air, and he is already staggering back onto the second step leading up to their door.

If he were still the boy that she had found in the Room of Forgotten Things that cold winter day, he would turn on his heel and march away, back rigid and tense. He would glare at her and shoot some scathing remark, before he left in a flourish. If he were still that boy, he would comment on the misfortune of mixing her genetics with Weasel's, the unfortunate coloring that that would surely result in, the sharp drop in IQ. But he's not that boy anymore, she's made sure of that, so instead, he makes a strangled sound and says, voice rigid and flat, as his fingers shake against his side. "Congratulations."

She makes a pained sound, and he glares at the ground, furious that she somehow has the right to be hurt _right now,_ and even angrier that her distress pains him as well _._ And furious at Potter for not telling him, or perhaps at himself for misconstruing what Potter had been meaning to tell him. He turns to leave, and he hears her stutter in a breath, like she might say something, but she remains quiet and he puts one foot in front of the other. Then, unbidden, he pauses at the gate to her- _their_ -house and says, loud enough to carry over the wind, "You'll make a wonderful mother." His face is turned halfway towards his shoulder, her body small and slight in his periphery, and his tongue is poised against his front teeth, like he wants to say something else, but instead, he wills his body to move forward, away from her.

 _December, 2002_

Potter's flat is messier than he would have expected, especially considering Weaslette has moved in with him recently, but the Weasley's were such a large bunch that perhaps they had all just gotten accustomed to living in filth. The thought makes him smile a little, and Potter shoots him a weird look when he catches sight of it.

Draco is stretched out on the ugly, blue couch in Potter's apartment. His fingers are lightly grasping a beer and Harry is seated to his right, elbows planted on his knees as he leaned forward and watched the men running around on the screen with baited breath.

"Careful, Potter. You open your mouth any wider and I'm going to think you've got a crush on some of these players."

Harry glared at him, and Draco took a long sip of his beer, focusing his attention back on the strange Muggle contraption that Harry had called the television. The players on the screen are running around, chasing a ball in some sort of barbaric sport called _soccer,_ and he would never admit it out loud, but he's quite invested in this game too, though not nearly as blatantly and pathetically as Potter is.

He stands up; placing his beer on the coaster that he had gotten Potter for his birthday. The darker-haired man had glared at him when he had opened the gift, bristling at the implications of the present, but Draco noticed that every time he was over the set of coasters was always on the coffee table.

"Be right back," he mutters, but Potter barely shoots him a disinterested glance before he is walking down the hallway towards the loo.

He pauses, something on the hallway table catching his eye. It's a Christmas card, her- _their-_ Christmas card. He isn't surprised she-they- have one, since he figures she's the type to send something like that out. He doesn't get a Christmas card from her, and if she were another girl, someone like Pansy Parkinson or Lavender Brown, he would think she did it out of spite, but when he picks up that card and looks at it he knows that she did it out of kindness.

In the picture on the card, she's heavily pregnant and baking. Ron sneaks up behind her and gets a little flour in her hair and she yelps, glaring at him, before her gaze softens as he places a hand against her swollen abdomen. The moment is candid and beautiful, and the elegant, flowing script the repeats itself on the bottom of the card says, "Happy Holidays from the Granger-Weasleys! Ron, Hermione and baby!

His chest hurts so much he stops in the middle of the hall, holding the card. The colors around him blur as he stares at the enchanted photo, the quick flurry of and movements tearing through his vision. Harry finds him there ten minutes later, and he comes up next to him muttering, "Malfoy I thought you said you were going to the loo—" and then stops abruptly when he follows Malfoy's line of sight. He feels Potter's hand awkwardly pat his shoulder once, and he wants to shove him off, but he too frozen and mute, eyes unfocused on the picture.

"She looks beautiful, doesn't she?" Potter asks him, tone soft and understanding.

"Radiant," he continues when Draco doesn't say anything and then Draco nods, hand lowering as he looks away.

 _December 2003,_

He apparates to Harry's flat, tugging on his cufflinks to make sure they're on securely before he steps up to the door. Through the wood he can already hear the festivities commence, the loud, boisterous sounds of the Weasley's filtering through the threshold. He grimaces at the noise, but he isn't dreading seeing the red-haired bunch as much as he thought he would.

He raps twice on the wood, and Harry opens the door.

"Potter." He nods in greeting, handing over a bottle of wine that his mother insisted he bring.

"Malfoy!" Potter accepts the wine and then claps him into a hug, and Malfoy stiffens, but pats him on the back once. The darker-haired man smells faintly of rum and Draco smirks when he recognizes the sheen of drunkenness over Potter's green eyes.

Harry leans in conspiratorially."I think George spiked the egg nog. It's brilliant," he whispers loudly.

Draco sniffs. "I can _smell_ it on you, Potter," he says dryly.

Potter grins at him and ushers him inside. People are loitered everywhere over the flat, drinks in hand. Everyone is dressed up, and the living room is a sea of jewel-toned hues. He heads towards the kitchen to grab a drink and nods politely at Weaslette- _Mrs. Potter now-_ as well as Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom.

Potter has a few bottles of liquor spread out on the kitchen counter, and Draco grimaces as he reads the labels of the cheap alcohol. He picks up a bottle of amber liquid and opens it, making a small sound of disgust as the sharp scent of the cheap brandy assaults his nostrils.

"Oh, don't be such a priss," Neville says, laughing and clapping him on the back as he passes through the kitchen.

Draco glares at his back, but there's no heat in his scowl, and he pours himself a generous glass of the alcohol, before he heads back into the throng of people.

He makes polite small talk with Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott, old friends that he is surprised has been invited to Potter's get-together. The question lingers between all three of them, each surprised that the other is there, but none of them bring it up. He also kisses Pansy on the cheek in greeting, smirking when she whispers to him, "Now, none of that, Malfoy. You lost your chance a long time ago in sixth year."

He steps outside onto the balcony after an hour of mingling, and he shuts the door behind him with a flick of his wrist, the roar of the party dying down to a murmur.

He stares at the inky black-blue sky. There's half an hour till midnight, till the New Years, and it feels right that he take some time away from the party to be alone, even though eventually he'll end the night by going home to his empty flat. He's so engrossed in staring at the night sky that he doesn't even hear her when she comes up behind him, startling him when she places a hand softly on his shoulder.

"Sorry," she says, breathing out a laugh. She's wearing a figure-hugging green dress, something she would have never dared to wear when they were still in school. The color isn't lost on him. It has thin straps that curve into a sweetheart neckline, tightening over her waist before it flares out into a lovely pool of fabric above her knees. She's a little curvier than he remembered, the vestiges of pregnancy still clinging to her, her breasts heavier against the silk fabric. She looks beautiful, and he clenches his fingers into a fist to avoid reaching out and touching her.

He hums in greeting, and she smiles at him, coming to stand beside him and placing her arms against the railing, mimicking his posture. She's so close than he can smell her, her usual scent of sandalwood replaced by something spicier—bergamot, maybe.

"Happy New Year's Eve, Malfoy." Her lips are red and glossy, and from his periphery he can see one corner turn up as she looks at him sideways.

"Happy New Year's Eve, Granger."

She rolls her head to the side softly, and he notices that she's carrying an empty glass of champagne in her hand. Her eyes look glossy in the halo of light the two small lanterns emit, and she smiles at him charmingly when she catches him staring.

"It's a lovely party, isn't it? Honestly," he voice lowers, "I'm surprised that Harry managed to carry it off." She giggles, and though her words aren't slurred, her voice is higher in pitch, melodious, and Draco recognizes the slight sing-song quality of her words to mean that she is a little tipsy. His heart swells in affection as she toes off her high heels, the tip of her head coming to his chin-level now.

"These bloody things hurt my feet," she grumbles, sitting down on a chair in the far right corner. He follows her, entranced, and sits across from her. She places her feet daintily in the space between his knees and leans back, her chin resting thoughtfully in the palm of her upturned hand as she stares at him.

"We weren't sure if you would show up." She muses, watching him thoughtfully.

He says nothing, but doesn't break the gaze.

"But I'm- _we're_ \- glad that you did."

He hums.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything, and the only sound is the muted noise of the party.

"I had Hugo," she says suddenly, and he stares at her in disbelief, smirking when her cheeks redden and she adds hastily, "Well," she gestures down at herself, "I'm sure you already guessed that."

He let out a short laugh that makes her smile, and he has to take another sip of his drink to keep from saying something stupid. Potter had sent an owl right after Hermione had given birth. A short message saying mum and baby were both healthy and happy, with the baby's weight and height scrawled hastily on the bottom of the parchment. After reading over the letter thrice, Draco had shoved it deep into his nightstand and drank himself into a stupor.

"Congratulations," he says softly, echoing his words from so long ago. Her smile deepens.

"He's with my parents tonight," she says. "Sometimes you just need to get away for a little. I love him with all my heart, but he's quite a handful."

He nods, pretending to understand, and she shoots a quick smile at him, knowing that he doesn't.

The sounds from inside rise as the countdown till the New Year begins. Everyone's voice rises in unison and Hermione sits up straighter at the noise.

 _Ten_

She leans forward, and her mouth opens but no sound come out.

 _Nine_

She licks her lips, and he follows the quick, darting motion of her pink tongue.

 _Eight_

"You know," she begins, voice fast and soft, and he has to strain to hear her over the crescendo of voices inside, "there was a part of me…" she trails off, looking down.

 _Seven_

He urges her silently to finish her thought, now, before it's too late.

 _Six_

"…that really wished—" She licks her lips again, and Draco's eyes dart automatically to the maddening movement. His chest feels like it might explode.

 _Five_

"—that really wished Hugo had been yours." She rushes out, a note of shame in her voice as she looks down quickly.

 _Four_

He can't breathe. He is going to pass out right now, right here, four seconds away from the New Year, and Potter will have to levitate his body outside and bury him in the first dawn of the year.

 _Three_

They stare at each other, neither willing to break the reverie they are in.

 _Two_

She reaches out and places a warm palm on his knee; the heat from her hand burns him through his trousers.

 _One_

As the shouting inside reaches an all-time high, she squeezes his knee and his heart thuds, the sound louder in his ears than the hollering from inside.

"I love Ron," she says. Draco flinches, and she continues, softly, "but I did think about it."

As if on cue, Weasley's voice rings out. "Where's my wife?" Draco closes his eyes in defeat, knowing that any second she will evaporate right in front of him. "Oi! 'Mione! I'm still waiting on my kiss!"

He opens his eyes and she shares with him her secret smile, rolling her eyes slightly as she gets up and dusts herself off, sliding into her heels. "I should go," she says, picking up the champagne flute, "Duty calls." Her voice is light and teasing, and she sends him one last backward glance as she slides open the door and disappears inside, taking all of the air in the room with her.

* * *

 _Authors Note: Thoughts? Has anyone listened to the playlist yet?_


	5. Chapter 5

_May, 2004_

He runs into her at Honeyduke's, his hands clenched tightly around a small bag of sweets that he is buying for Astoria. He pulls up short when he looks up and sees her standing there, both of them in front of a giant display of chocolate frogs.

She blinks at him, her mouth open softly in surprise, before a wide smile rolls across her face, and she leans forward, hugging him warmly. He breathes in her scent deeply, his hands automatically settling on the small of her back.

"Hello, Malfoy," she says shyly. Her eyes are shining and her hair is up and messy, tendrils loose and framing her face.

She looks down to her right, and he follows her gaze, landing on a toddler grasping her hand tightly, the other small knuckle fisted in Hermione's trousers as he eyes Draco bashfully.

"Say hello to Mr. Malfoy," Hermione says to her son. The image makes Draco's head and heart hurt. He hadn't seen her since the New Year's Eve party, but he saw her often enough in his dreams that she still looks exactly like he remembered.

The little boy waved at him and then smiled, revealing a smattering of shiny little teeth in his mouth. He looks more like Weasley than her, except his hair is the same shade of tawny that hers is, and his cheeks are rosy and soft with youth. Draco nods at him, not trusting himself to speak in this moment.

Hermione beams at him, and the plastic in his hand crinkles as he grasps it even tighter. "How are you?" She says.

He clears his throat. "I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm doing well, but this one," she inclines her head down towards her son, "keeps me busy." Her tone is honeyed, something that he will eventually come to recognize as the soothing cadence of a mother's love. Motherhood had been kind to her. She's still lovely, but there's something _softer_ about her, in the curves and lines of her body and the way she carries herself.

He smiles, despite the pounding in his chest, and she eyes the bag of candy in his hand.

"Getting something for someone special? Or do you still have an incorrigible sweet tooth?" Her eyes twinkle with knowing, and he fights the urge to look away.

He hums, and her smile deepens. "I've seen pictures of you together. She's beautiful." Her tone is kind, but it hurts his ears either way. _Witch's Weekly_ had captured photos of him and Astoria leaving a restaurant together, his hand on her back. The headline had said _Eligible Malfoy Bachelor Claims One of the Remaining Sacred 28—Some Things Never Change._ Though he isn't embarrassed to be seen with Astoria-she is beautiful, and kind, and exactly the kind of girl Draco needs now-there is a part of him that balks over Hermione finding out in that way.

Hermione's look is soft and affectionate, and the silence between them is comfortable in a way reminiscent of that last year at Hogwarts. It makes Draco wish he could sink into it, hold her hand and drag her down into the memory with him.

"Your mother must be very happy." Her tone is more teasing than vindictive or sharp, but it still pains him to hear her reference to Astoria's pureblood status. Then she says, "I'm happy for you, Draco." And he is in pain for another reason entirely. He makes a small, strange sound, and a corner of her mouth lifts up. "I am, really." She looks down shyly, and then meets his eyes again, "You deserve to be happy."

 _Ask me to stay. Say it and I'm yours_ he thinks, as he watches her chew on the inside of her lip thoughtfully. It's one of the nervous ticks he still recognizes from her youth. _Say the words and I'll be there. I could make you happy this time._

But then the little boy fusses and tugs on his mother's hand, and Hermione looks at him apologetically and says, "I should go. Hugo here still hasn't mastered the art of patience," and Draco nods, because what else is there to say, and he watches mother and son walk out of the store hand-in-hand.

He stares at the spot that they were standing in long after they're gone, and then he puts the bag of sweets down and walks out of the door, apparating back to his flat numbly.

 _July, 2005_

Astoria smiles at him, walking towards him, wearing only an emerald silk nightgown. He has on matching pajama bottoms, and he smirks, knowing that Granger would have a heart attack if he had suggested they wear something similar.

They've been dating for over a year now. She is beautiful in the ways that Granger isn't—deep black hair that hangs in a straight, silky curtain down her back. Tall and willowy, with legs so long that sometimes his mouth runs dry when the duvet falls down low in the morning, revealing one slender, pale thigh. Her eyes remind him of the green on their mutual Hogwarts house, and her laugh is so elegant that she looks like a portrait when she smiles.

His mother loves her, and Pansy hates her. Theo and Blaise always call him a "lucky sod," whenever he comes around with her, and sometimes, when the sunlight slants across her a certain way, the dark chocolate undertones of her hair coming out, he thinks maybe in a year or two he'll make her a Malfoy.

She crawls up the bed, her arms planted on either side of his hip, and leans forward to kiss him. Her arms are covered in a thin sheen of lotion, and she smells like fresh apples and something citrusy.

He groans lowly and reaches forward, attempting to pull her closer, but she leans back, sitting down on her calves.

He makes a disgruntled noise and arches a brow at her, leaning forward and attempting to reach for her again, but her palm comes up to his cheek and she gives him a searching look.

"I always know when you're thinking about her, you know?" She smiles softly, and he furrows his brows.

"Astoria—"

Her hand leaves his face, and she holds a palm up, though not unkindly. "Draco, don't."

So he doesn't, and her eyes drift over his, something unreadable crossing over her delicate features.

"I know because I used to have my own Hermione Granger in my life."

He raises an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth rising up as he leers at her. "Oh, did you? I never knew you had an _experimental—"_

She scoffs and swats his shoulder, rolling her eyes up. "Merlin, you per _vert_ —"

He grins at her.

"—No, what I mean is," she exhales, her eyes softening, "there used to be someone that I loved very much. Too much, maybe."

He's silent, a dozen responses flit across his tongue, but he doesn't know which one would be truthful.

"You don't have to say anything, Draco. I'm not accusing you. I know…" she swallows, "well I guess what I'm trying to say is that I know what it feels like."

He touches her arm, ghosting a finger down to her wrist. "Who was he?"

She laughs, the sound light and airy. "Someone from a long, long time ago," and then she leans forward, pressing her forehead against his. "I'll never be her for you, maybe—"

He opens his mouth to interject, but she presses a finger against his parted lips. "—but Draco, if you let me…I could be your family now."

Something tender and slick rises in his throat, and he searches her eyes, finding his answer in the subtle ring of gold around her pupil.

Sliding his hand across the back of her neck, he draws her forward and kisses her.

 _June, 2005_

The wedding is an ornate, extravagant affair. Witches' Weekly calls it "the event of the seasons," with "everyone who is _anyone_ in attendance."

His mother spends months planning everything. She even acquires more house-elves, much to his chagrin, to ensure that Malfoy Manor is adequately prepared for the occasion.

The ceremony takes place in the sprawling backyard, with every tree and bush charmed to emit small glimmers of fairy light. In homage of their mutual Hogwarts house, silver and emerald are sprawled across every available surface, and the walkway to the wedding arch is lined with levitating candles that came to life as the bride walked down the aisle.

Astoria is radiant in the white v-cut gown with lace overlay and tiny emeralds glittering across her veil. Although neither he nor she are a fan of many pureblood traditions, they acquiesce with their parent's demands for a traditional wedding, and when he reaches forward to unveil her, his breath catches at the sight of her rosy cheeks and forest-green eyes. And he thinks, when he says, "I do," that he does, he does love her, very much, and that is enough, isn't it? Because he does.

He does.

After, holding her in his arms as they spin around the dance floor, her gown twirling around them in an arc, he starts to think about the future with her, of their new home, their new lives, of her new name and, eventually, of a new heir. His eyes blur with the possibilities, and then she is touching his cheek softly and whispering into his ear, "She's staring at you, you know?"

He looks around, following her gaze to see Hermione seated at a table with Weasley and Potter. She's wearing a long dark blue silk dress with a halter neckline, and she's staring at them thoughtfully, her lips pursed in concentration. When she sees him staring, she smiles at him beatifically, and he hums and looks away, making noncommittal sound to Astoria's statement.

"You should dance with her," Astoria says, her breath warm against his ear.

He pulls back, giving her a suspicious look, but her eyes are soft and kind, and she nudges him, nodding Hermione's way before she steps back and disappears into the throng of their friends on the dance floor.

He swallows, at a loss. He can feel her gaze burning holes into his back with curiosity, and he makes his way over, slowly, careful not to meet her gaze directly until he's standing right in front of her.

He nods to both Potter and Weasley, and both men raise their champagne flutes slightly in his direction. Weasley's stare is trained on him, though not viciously or maliciously, as Draco extends a hand towards the other man's wife. Hermione smiles and stands, accepting his offer, and he leads her onto the dance floor.

A slow song starts, the soft strands of guitar floating past them. He holds out his arms, and she slides into them. Their posture is nothing inappropriate-he keeps his hands respectfully on her waist, and she keeps one hand on his bicep and the other one enclosed in his own larger hand-but this is the most physical contact he's had with her in years and he suddenly feels disoriented and heavy, his feet dragging slightly across the floor as he leads them around.

She has her hair in a loose braid that hangs off one shoulder, and he focuses on the thick strands of hair to avoid looking at her for too long, but then she clears her throat and he looks up at the noise to find her warm, brown irises trained on him.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," she says, her fingers shifting over his slightly.

"Thank you for coming."

"Of course," she says, her voice warm, "I wouldn't have missed it."

He swallows, feeling guilty. He hadn't gone to her wedding, not her anniversary party, though he kept the initiations for both. Through the grapevine, he heard that it was a simple affair, a few friends and family gathered at the burrow. A small part of him was glad it had been small-insignificant, if he wanted to be bitter-because it had made ignoring the union that much easier.

He opens his mouth, an apology on his tongue, but seeing the look in his eyes, she shakes her head slightly, the message clear _it's fine. don't bring it up right now._

He raises his arm, and she twirls under him gracefully, his hand skimming lightly over the exposed skin of her back. When she's back in his arms, he leads them over to the far corner of the dance floor, where the bodies of the other couples shield them.

The music is softer here, lost in the ebb of the party, and she touches his cheek lightly, her fingers ghosting over his cheekbone as she stares at him. Something flashes across her eyes, too quick for most people to recognize, but he's so familiar with the feeling that he catches that tiny spark of it _longing._

"Congratulations, Draco," she says softly.

He nods, at a loss of what to say. A new song starts, and he adjusts their pace to the song, swinging her further into the center of the dance floor. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder and she nods to his right, and says, "I think your mother would like a dance."

He looks over his shoulder to see Narcissa standing there, smiling at him elegantly. Her hair is coiffed perfectly against her neck, and she's wearing a conservative emerald gown that manages to avoid looking too matronly.

"May I?" She says to Hermione.

Hermione nods, squeezing his shoulders once more before she steps back, his hands falling from her frame, and walks back to her table. His mother glides into her place, and he moves them across the dance floor.

Her smile is warm, but there is an undertone of knowing in it that makes him uneasy.

"It was a lovely ceremony, Draco."

"Mostly due to your efforts, mother." He smiles at her, and she reaches up to push his hair back from his eyes.

"I'm proud of you, Draco," she says, and he swallows thickly. She continues, "And your father—"

"Mother, please," his says, voice tight.

Her eyes soften, and for the next few beats of the song they are silent, their movements graceful and synchronized.

"You know, Draco," she says, suddenly, "sometimes we don't get the golden snitch." He furrows his brows, unsure whether she's referring to her own widowhood or his new marriage. "But we get pretty close. And that's good enough, isn't it?" He twirls her around, her surprised laughter lighter than he's heard it be in ages, and when she spins back to face him, he nods, throat tight with something soft and heavy all at once.

 _September, 2018_

He hugs Scorpius to him, allowing his hold to linger longer than normally, and then watches as his son clings to his mother briefly. Astoria's eyes are glossy in the sunlight flooding that platform. He is surrounded by memories at King's Cross station. There, in that corner, him at twelve, filled with anticipation as he got ready to board the train, his head swimming with ideas about what magic he would find at Hogwarts. Fifth year, his arm slung around Pansy's shoulders as he carelessly shot her a smirk and let the sound of her giggling guide them into a compartment. And then, there, sixth year when he boarded only to feel the sick pit of fear in his stomach as he rode onto his _mission,_ the serpentine path of the journey intensifying the despair flooding into his chest.

Scorpius gives his parents once last lingering glance, and Draco smiles at him encouragingly, nodding towards the train. As he, flagged by Albus Potter, ascends the steps onto the train, Draco feels Astoria's hand slip into his, and he squeezes lightly in response.

"Reminds you of our own time, doesn't it? Merlin, I still can't get over how fast it's come." _She_ is there, and his heart thuds in his chest painfully for the minute it takes to his eyes to flash over her features, the sunlight creating a muted halo behind her. She smiles at him kindly, and he clears his throat, his fingers dropping from Astoria's.

"Granger," he grins at her, "how are you?"

" _M_ alfoy," a corner of her mouth turns up, and he can sense a hint of playfulness in her tone. All these years later and they still refer to each other by their surnames, even though she has been Granger-Weasley for seventeen years now.

She reaches towards Astoria first; hugging her warmly and dropping a polite greeting kiss on her cheek. When she reaches Draco, he is prepared, his heart rate significantly slower that it is a few moments ago. But then she presses against him, her smooth cheek sliding over his, lips just lightly brushing across the skin adjacent to his ear. That unforgettable scent of sandalwood blankets him in, and he feels his chest constrict painfully, his brain short-circuiting with the assault on his senses.

It is over too soon, and then she and Astoria are exchanging pleasantries about the children, about work, and suddenly Draco finds himself trailing behind his wife and the woman he will always love, all three of them on their way to a late lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.

Seated across from her at the pub, he can't stop himself from asking, "Where's Weasley?" Throughout the years, the vitriol in his pronunciation of that name has faded, and now when he says it, it sounds like genuine curiosity instead of thinly veiled animosity.

"Oh," she glances at him, and then looks away, laughing lightly as she makes a nonchalant gesture with her hand, "he got caught up in the ministry. Harry and him are on a new case." She clears her throat, her smile strained, "I'm sure he wishes he could have been here to see Rose off." There is a flicker of something in her eyes that he can't name, but Astoria cut off his train of thought before he could delve deeper into it.

"So are you hoping that Rose gets sorted into Gryffndor, just like Hugo?" Her tone is warm and light, and Hermione laughs at the question.

"I suppose I'm just hoping she ends up where she feels she belongs."

"Even if that meant Slytherin?" Draco can't help himself, the questioning blooming forth into the air between them before he can strangle it and push it back down.

She is quiet for a moment, before she meets his eyes. "Some of the bravest people I know were from Slytherin."

He swallows, hard, and Astoria smiles at Hermione kindly. "Yes, I know what you mean. I think Draco here," she nudges him softly, her hand slipping into his again, "wants Scorpius to be in Slytherin—"

 _False_ he thinks. _But not Hufflepuff_ he adds quickly.

"—but I just want him to be happy as well. Times have changed, haven't they?"

The women share a look that only mothers could understand, and he suddenly feels all wrong, as if _he_ is intruding on a personal moment between them. Astoria's arm buzzes from where it lies on top of his, and he looks down to see letters flashing across the enchanted green gem of her bracelet.

"Oh," she breaths out, her tone apologetic, "I think the office needs me again." She shoots them both a contrite look. "I normally wouldn't go, but they only use this bracelet for emergencies."

He nodded at her, "Go, darling, Granger and I will play nice." His wife laughs and swats his arm, and he pressed a brief kiss against her temple. When he looks back at Granger, she is looking away, the tips of her ears pink, and her fingers rigid with tension where they are clasped against her glass.

He furrows his brow. When he meets her eyes she has an unreadable expression in her eyes _I used to be able to read all her expressions_ and he clears his throat and takes a sip of the brandy in his glass.

He suddenly feels anxious about the potential awkwardness between them. This is hardly the first time they had seen each other since _then,_ but it felt profound somehow, poignant due to the occasion.

He drinks her in, following a tendril of hair that has fallen from her bun, the frizzy curl framing her face. She is older, as they all are, and there are small lines branching out from the corners of her eyes. He notices them when she smiles especially, but there is still that unmistakable warmth about her, that feeling of _good_ he always gets from her. His fingers itch to reach across and touch her skin, just once, to cup her warm cheek in his own and be the man he had once thought would end up with her.

She tilts her head, studying him. "You've grown your hair out."

He breathes out a laugh. "Yes, I supposed I got tired of using all that hair potion to slick it back."

She smiles widely. "I like it," then her gaze turns thoughtful, "though I liked it the way it was back then too." Her chin drops and her tone is lighthearted when she admits, "but I would have rather hexed myself than admit that to you."

"Ah, the infamous Granger pride."

She sniffs, her chin jutting out in a way that reminds him exactly of the girl she had been. "I had to keep your head from getting any bigger than it already was, didn't I?"

His laugh comes bubbling out of him, and he feels lighter than he has in a very long time.

She takes another sip of her wine. "How is Scorpius?"

"He's good. He's very excited about Hogwarts, as I'm sure Rose is."

"Yes. She was practically dragging us to the platform today." She places a hand across her chest and sighs dramatically, "Really, I wish she would have given her poor mother a break. Now that both her and Hugo are gone the house is going to feel strange."

He chuckles. "Let's not even pretend she won't be just as much of a bookworm as her mother. She'll probably end up head girl." He tilts his head, his gaze softening, "She's the spitting image of you, you know?"

Her cheeks flare a lovely pink color. "People do say that." her hands are on the table, her left index finger drawing a small circle into her thumb, "Hugo looks much more like Ron."

She fidgets under his gaze, thumbing her wedding band. The gold glint momentarily blinding him as it ricochets off the glass and into his eye. He blinks, dazed, and she laughs nervously. "Sorry."

There is a moment of silence, and she continues, "Who knows. Maybe Scorpius and Rose will be friends."

He smiles at the possibility. "In the same way you and I were _friends_ back then?"

She blushes and huffs out what sounds like a laugh, but the ending of it is a little strangled. "Well, I don't know if we should hope our children get up to half as much as we did." She gives him a knowing look, her eyes twinkling.

He chuckles in agreement. "True. I certainly wouldn't want to subject my son to the wrath of Hermione Granger if he ever dare touch her daughter."

The laughter between them is one of old friends, but the undercurrent that ran through them is still there, no matter how dormant it has been.

She grazes the condensation on her glass of water, and says, not meeting his eyes. "I think of you often, you know?"

He swallows, the action painful in the sudden tight air. "Granger," his voice is low, though not unkind, in warning.

She continues, ignoring him, "I just—I hope you're happy."

He eyes her wine glass. It is almost all gone, and it is her second glass, so he knows not to completely trust her train of thought. The back of his neck is prickling with the danger sirens going off in his head.

"I am, Hermione." He stares at her, "are you?"

"Yes," she says, automatically, sitting up straighter with her shoulders pushed back, as if on cue, "I am." She pauses, and then adds unnecessarily, "How could I not be?"

He eyes her over his own glass, but says nothing.

Then her postured relaxes, like she's slowly deflating, "But I do wonder sometimes," she meets his questioning look, her eyes bright, the amber flecks of them so familiar to him that he feels his stomach twist painfully, "I wonder whether or not you and I were written in the stars somewhere as well…in another life."

A hush falls over them. He searches her eyes, and then he reaches across the table to hold her hand, her fingers curling around his automatically, even after all these years.

Author's Note: It's finished. I felt hollow after I typed out the last period, but truly, I don't know that I could have given this fic a happy ending. The foundation of the plot rested on examining longing and desire, and I felt this ending really was the best way to do that justice. Please leave a review letting me know how you felt!


End file.
